


Heart Between His Teeth

by cinnamxn



Series: Heaven is Where the Heart Is [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Addiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Alastor, Asexual Character, Cannibalism, Demons do Bad Things, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I didn't wanna tag a million ships but just know that Angel has had a lot of partners, Intersex Angel Dust, Intersex Character, Just About Every Kind of Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Old timey slang, Original Characters - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), Recovery, Sex Work, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Warnings In Chapter Notes, because otherwise this would have a lot of tags, but most of them become better people by the end of this fic I swear, including Valentino and Vox and OC's, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21767152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamxn/pseuds/cinnamxn
Summary: So maybe there are better things to life than being drugged and fucked so hard you can't even think for yourself.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust & Vaggie (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Heaven is Where the Heart Is [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625689
Comments: 154
Kudos: 610
Collections: Writers of Hell





	1. Free Rent

**Author's Note:**

> I don't fuck around with those tags. This story starts off rough! I just really wanted to get to the main idea of this story, so. Oof. It'll get nicer in a few chapters, but right here it contains heavy themes of (sexual) abuse and (drugs, sex) addiction. Make sure to practice self-care.

The Happy Hotel became something more than just free rent. It runs entirely on the power of charity: if one could call it that. So long as the Radio Demon is entertained by the goings on, he’s willing to pour as much money as it takes into making the hotel hospitable to wretched souls. 

It means that Angel not only has a roof over his head, but food in his belly, and praline on his pillow. There’s a lot that’s going to change in the future, and if the intention of the hotel stays true, those changes will eventually suck. When they do, Angel might just...

He has no idea what he’ll do. But it won’t be pretty. 

But for now, it’s great. Outside of the hotel, he even has a chance to be himself. At least so long as he does so between eight in the morning and five in the afternoon. So every morning, as soon as he’s awake, he eats breakfast, throws on a dress and a wig, and signs himself out with a sexy (but unfortunately disinterested) bartender before heading to work.

Work means sleeping with strangers for money, and he makes sure when he comes back he’s got a high to last ‘til the next day when he heads off again. If anybody at the hotel has noticed, they haven’t made a fuss over it yet. It’s been nice. 

He’s on his way out the door to rinse and repeat when his hellphone vibrates in his pocket - a new message from Val. A new demand for money Angel doesn’t have yet. A new threat against a pet he can’t afford to keep. 

The text fills Angel with a surge of fury so strong he hears static. At least, he assumes that’s what happens, until a voice boasts loudly behind him- 

“Well, that is _certainly_ a sticky dilemma!” A chill runs down the spider demon’s spine. Angel spins, clutching his chest with one of his free hands and gawks at the Radio Demon, who has begun to emit a few eerie piano keys. 

“You creep, you scared the _shit_ outta me!”

For all Angel appreciates Alastor’s efforts to make the hotel livable, he’s still not sure how he feels about their sponsor. The last thing he needs in his life is the attention of even more demonic overlords. Charlie and Val is too much already without Al in the mix. Last he checked, he’d managed to scare the prude off easily enough with his proposition. _Wrong_. 

(Maybe he’s not a prude afterall. Maybe he’s hiding some sick desire.)

Alastor hums, circling Angel with a wide and sadistic grin. (He could fuck Angel up so hard.) “So how will you pay back this fellow without falling to sin?”

“Why do you care? You a snitch or something?”

Alastor’s grin softens to an amused smirk, and he pulls Angel against his side like they’re old friends reunited. “I’ve noticed that you seem to take every opportunity to leave the hotel that you can! And you certainly return… _enthused_. Given how much I have invested into your recovery it’s only natural I would wonder what our first inpatient is up to beyond our supervision. For shame, what if one day you weren’t to return? We wouldn’t have a clue what had happened to you…” the low rumble of radio static mimicks a sort of animalistic excitement at the idea. (Sick fuck.) Then with a sharp record scratch he jumps to a more jovial tone. “It would reflect poorly on this hotel.” 

“I’m touched by your concern,” Angel teases, kissing the demon’s cheek as he separates from him. This causes a burst of feedback from Alastor, who stares at Angel with an increasingly forced smile. “Don’t worry, pinstripes. I’m a queen; not some damsel in distress. I know how to handle myself. Ain’t nothing you need to protect me from.” 

Still taken aback by the sudden peck, Alastor stutters a moment before exclaiming, “I admire your confidence! Though may I suggest-”

Angel tuts. “Enough said, babe, I got work to do.”

Then he leaves the hotel with a confident strut, heels clacking against the pavement as he walks to the road. Alastor watches him leave, his smile difficult to read, but certainly not genuine, and then abruptly spins on his heel to attend to matters with other residents. 

* * *

On the path a certain hooker walks everyday, a long, black limousine awaits. It's near impossible to see from the hotel: but one bedroom window has a clear view. There's a radio in the car; plenty of space for shadows to roam and whisper. 

There is much to be prepared. What an _interesting_ opportunity this is. 

* * *

By the time Angel notices it, it’s too late to avoid. (Idiot.)

Val’s goons are waiting for him, and they know they’ve caught him. If he runs from them, if he fights them, Val will be mad. He breathes in heavily, readies himself with a gulp, and approaches the limo. “Hey hotstuff,” he says, though his voice cracks under the pressure, and they give him an unimpressed look. 

“Boss wants you back.” Says one of them (what the fuck were their names again?). 

“I know, I know. He wants his money.”

“You took too long,” says the other, Burlier. “He wants you to pay it back at the studio.”

“Ensurance.” Adds the first of the goons, Creepier. 

There’s no saying No to Valentino; Overlord of Sexual Deviancy. He steps into the car, and finds a little baggie waiting on his seat. The pills are pink; fast-acting. Shaped like hearts. 

He places one on his tongue. 

If he’s gonna do this, there’s no way he’s going to be able to do it sober. Swallow, bitch.

* * *

_Surrendering control is so much easier._

* * *

The next thing he knows it’s all just shapes. 

Just blue and white and yellow, bright and blinding. A winged demon he’s never met, and they grunt and groan according to a script, working on autopilot through the tingle of nose candy. He’s choking on cotton clouds and there’s the wonderful, painful thrusting. Wet sounds he’s heard a million times before. 

Take one. Take two. Take three. So on. So forth...

He can’t even remember why he’s here in the first place.

He forgets who he is for a moment.

* * *

“Good job, Angel, that’s a wrap!” 

Hell, he feels _great_. 

* * *

When the cameras are all turned off, somebody undresses him from the wings attached to his shoulders. They sit a folded pink gown by his side. A packet of cigarettes on top. The spotlights dull and the world feels much more like reality for a moment as he slips into his robe, tying it at his waist. The man he just got plowed by offers him a light. 

“Thanks,” Angel huffs. 

“It’s an honour,” grins the birdbrained bastard. “Never thought I’d get to fuck you myself.” 

Angel rolls his eyes, with just a bit of a smirk. That's why he's here. Fuck his way back into Val's favour. Earn back the money he lost him. Maybe if he does that he can get his baby back.

“Don’t brag about it or nothin’. Everyone in this place has had their fair share.” He leans back into the soft embrace of the crudely crafted Heaven. The smoke in his lungs is doing wonders to clear the daze of lust from his mind. He's already feeling sharp enough. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a pig around?” 

“I’ll tell you if you let me have another round?”

Angel’s eye twitches. “I’ll pass,” he decides, digging the cigarette into the cotton, just to fuck shit up. He stands before it catches. “Take care of that for me, will ya?” he kisses the demon once on the cheek and sashays out of Studio 3A. 

Fire alarms shriek as he makes his way to the penthouse, and Angel can’t suppress a hearty chuckle. 

It’s not so bad being back. He’s pumped up on enough stimulants to be practically vibrating. First the pill, then a line of coke (or two, or three, he can’t remember past the third) and then there’s the wonderful euphoria of post-orgasm. Honestly, he feels closer to heaven than he ever did in that Hazbin Hotel. 

He hopes Fat Nuggets is in the penthouse - not discarded to some crappy doghouse or shelter. If Fat Nuggets is here, then it’ll all be worth it, really. He won’t be able to show his face at the hotel again if Val has his way. But he’ll be able to stay with his favourite little piggy. 

Angel steps into the elevator and rubs his arms nurturingly. Like how his mamma used to do to comfort him. He breathes in, and then presses the button. The jazzy music, while cheerful, is somehow more upsetting than the noises Alastor had made during their weird interaction that morning. 

Angel is caught in too many webs to tangle himself with the Radio Demon. Hopefully, now that he’s vanished from the hotel, Alastor will just forget about him. Let by-gones be by-gones. He’ll be left with only the devil he knows. 

The elevator doors open up to Val’s den. It’s covered in dark tones of purple, the walls decorated with pinups and toys and memorabilia. Not at all concerned with cleanliness: this is a room made for orgies, not hosting. So long as diseases aren't spread, who cares? 

Valentino is laid out on a chaise, looking down at a tablet through huge, heart-shaped lenses. Angel manages a glimpse at the footage, but the sound of his own moans should have cued him - taken only a few moments ago, he’s sure. He looks good; he always does, though he’s a little less focused than he normally would be, a little too taken by the drugs in his system. 

It’s been too long since he’s _really_ been fucked.

Or fucked up. 

“Watch with me…” Val beckons him to a spot on the cushion, his voice crawling over Angel’s skin like cockroaches.

Angel follows, sitting where Val wants him to sit, seeing what Val wants him to see. 

* * *

“It’s beautiful to see you back where you belong, Doll,” Val sighs when they finish the video (he really did all that only ten minutes ago?) “And with the recent publicity of that Hotel… The media is going to eat this video right up.” 

“It doesn’t seem a bit insensitive to you?” Angel asks cautiously, thinking back to how choked up Charlie was over a simple turf brawl. Poor, dumb kid. If she finds out about this, he thinks, it’ll surely break her. 

Valentino doesn’t see it the same way; the thought makes him chuckle heartily, and he blows pink smoke into Angel’s face. “Not at all,” he hums. “All’s fair in love and war, Angie Baby.”

Angel feels a familiar flutter in his chest, but he shoves it down. “Look, I only care that you’re feeding Fat Nuggets. Where is he?”

Val pulls up his hellphone, texting with one set of hands, the other venturing Angel’s body. “I’ll have him up right away." A surge of annoyance - where the heck has he been keeping Ange's babe then? "I see what you're thinking," Val grins. "You're the one who chose to leave him with me, Sugar. I kept him alive when you couldn't. Be grateful." Then, squeezing the flesh of Angel’s waist, “Seems you've missed him so much you've tried to make a pig of yourself.” 

“The hotel had good food," Angel says, pushed to his own defense. "Is that a problem?”

Val grins, “We’ll see what the viewers think. If you’re lucky, they won’t notice.”

“Ouch?” Angel’s voice becomes small as he’s pulled in by the ass. Not much of an ass, but it’s sensitive, and Val knows just how to hook him in. 

It’s the sort of thing you discover when you own somebody for long enough.

Owned. Completely. 

Until a few months ago, Angel had spent the better half of his afterlife stuck in this studio, sleeping in this penthouse. In the bed most nights. On the couch others. If Val was particularly upset, locked in the bathroom. His entire life was whatever Val told him to do. And what Val told him was usually who to fuck. 

Angel, fuck a cockroach. Angel, fuck a TV. Angel, choke on six dicks at once. 

_Make sure to smile, Sugar. The only thing punished harder than disobedience is disappointment._

Val twists; pushes Angel off the seat and onto his knees, and from there, Angel knows exactly what he’s being asked to do.

Angel. Muffin. Baby. _Fuck Me._

* * *

They’re getting into round two when the elevator doors open with a _ding_. Angel brightens immediately, jumping off Val and readjusting his robe. In the elevator stands an imp holding a leash; and little Fat Nuggets all pink and clean in a bedazzled red harness. “Daddy’s home!” Angel announces, opening his arms for the pig. 

Fat Nuggets oinks in recognition and makes his way towards Angel. The imp hands Angel the leash’s end, and makes their way back downstairs. “Have you been a good boy for Val?” Angel babbles, huddling over his pig and squeezing his face excitedly. “I hope he’s been a good daddy to you while I was gone.” 

Val dresses fully before approaching them. “He can stay in the apartment again,” the demon hisses. “ _If_ you stay as well.” 

The joy fades as Angel recalls all his long days stuck in the studio. “C’mon boss, don’t be like that,” he looks up at Val’s sneer. “I got the hotel, now. I got Charlie…”

Val crouches down, closer to Angel’s level. He grins so that Angel can see the golden gleam of their matching teeth. He touches Angel gently under the chin, bringing their lips so close they brush together. “Now, Muffin…” a finger trails down Angel’s chest, “You know you don’t deserve redemption. You're too much of a whore. I need you here where I can keep you safe.” 

“I…” Angel tries to believe otherwise. He wants to believe redemption is an option. But Val is a very persuasive kisser. 

* * *

The clock strikes six at the hotel. An hour past curfew; the time of day Husk hands the daily paperwork back to Charlie. The hotel isn’t too busy, but there always seems to be one or two people coming back late. Six is when they start to make dinner, though. They’ve never had someone pass up the opportunity for a free meal. 

Not until today. 

“Husk?” Charlie asks, afraid she’s made a mistake. “You haven’t seen Angel come back?”

Husk shrugs. “Signed out at ten," he notes. "He didn’t sign back in.” 

“Maybe he just forgot…” she reasons, biting her lip anxiously. “I’ll ask around. Check his room. He’ll turn up, right?” Her positivity is less infectious than she hopes, earning her a blank stare for her efforts. 

“He talked to Al before he left,” Husk adds. “Maybe check with that bastard, too.”

* * *

There’s no reply when she knocks on his bedroom door. No sounds of life coming from inside. He hasn’t left the Do Not Disturb sign up, so Charlie decides to venture in. She finds a suspicious box labelled "TOYS" by the bed, but the room is otherwise following hotel rules. The bed quilted in tidy red sheets, the bathroom small and spotless; there’s a cheap brush and a bucket of makeup. The clothes in his closet are mostly feminine, and his favourite wig is missing from the collection of mannequin heads on his desk. 

She pulls up his number on his hellphone, but it goes to voicemail. She leaves a text asking where he is as well. 

Alastor’s room is just down the hall, and with all the voodoo symbols burned into the wooden door, it’s the least welcoming one in the hotel. The door opens voluntarily before she has a chance to knock, shadows creeping along the floor too fast for her to make any of them out. 

“My foresight is not to be underestimated, my dear,” Alastor tells her shocked face as he invites her in. He’s taken over the rickety wooden desk with a clutter of paperwork, leaning over it and scribbling intensely when she first sees him. He turns in his desk chair as Charlie approaches, resting his fountain pen in its case and giving her his undivided attention. “Now… what brings you to my quarters?”

“I, uh… Angel didn’t come back this afternoon, and we’re about to make dinner. I was, well, apparently you talked to him this morning? Do you have any idea where he might be?” Her voice drops, involuntarily, into desperation. A sound that no doubt inspires Alastor. 

His face lights up, and he pounces to his feet in excitement. “I _might_ have an idea,” he deliberates. 

Charlie doesn’t know what to make of that; she’s sure she doesn’t like it, though. “Well, if you tell me what you know, Vaggie and I might be able to bring him back.” 

The radio demon lets out a static chuckle, and he gives her a comforting pat. “Oh, no, dear, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You see our arachnidae friend has gotten himself tangled in webs far higher than your reach.” 

“What do you mean?”

Alastor’s smile widens. “Never you mind, belle, I’ll soon retrieve him.”

“Alastor-”

But he’s gone; a shadow flees where he had stood, and it slithers under the door and down the hallway too fast for Charlie to keep up. She’s left to chew on her lip in contemplation. A moment later, another shadow darts back into the room; taking some of Alastor’s paperwork with him. The pen shortly follows.

Charlie _definitely_ doesn’t like that. 


	2. Dealing with Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor walks into an uncomfortable situation with an even less comfortable proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for awkwardness, abuse and dehumanisation.

Alastor doesn’t act outside of his best interests. He’s avoided Valentino for a long time; he has no desire to involve himself in the porn industry. The whole practice is ludicrous; downright disgusting in his opinion. He wouldn’t be getting so close to such animal behaviour if he didn’t have a good reason for it. 

The hotel’s reputation, for one. Charlie’s motivation to keep up her project, for another. A possible advantage against the demon who holds television in his palms. If he’s especially lucky: power and partnership of a sort with the man who has the entire nine circles by it’s gonads. Deep down, he knows he’s mostly seeking out the thrill of watching the Hazbin Hotel’s very first critical failure of a recovering soul (and just imagine how much farther the Angel has yet to fall). 

He’s never been to this part of town, but his bold smile and raw confidence are enough to gain his security as he approaches the infamous Porn Studio. Even the outside is revolting; there are streams of sick and semen in the streets, and acts of voyeurism he makes a great effort to seem unaware of. Much less isolated than his radio tower, where people are far too afraid to venture. 

He approaches the sliding door feeling less comfortable in his skin than he would like, and he takes a moment to air out his collar before he steps inside. It’s just as stuffy in there as it is outside - moreso, as the crude sounds coming from every angle make him sweat further. 

Alastor surrounds himself with an empowering song plucked from his childhood as he approaches a scantily clad secretary. 

“Alastor,” he introduces himself, offering a hand, “Pleasure to be here. I’d like to make an audience with your boss .”

“You’re the Radio Guy?” She raises an eyebrow at him, a little fearful. Alastor blinks in reply, and she keys something into her thinking machine. Waits a moment. 

“The Radio Demon is at the door,” she says into her headset.

A moment of pause, then she keys something else in, and redirects her attention to Alastor.

“Elevator down the end of the hall,” she says hastily. “Head on up to the penthouse, he's expecting you.” 

“Wonderful!” Alastor lies, and strolls onwards in that direction. 

* * *

Inside the elevator, one could almost forget where they are. It’s brightly lit, lined with mirrors. Alastor can see himself from every direction, to the point it is nearly dizzying. An elevator jingle plays, not unlike something Alastor would use to fill quiet moments at the station. The steady rise helps him recharge his confidence. 

* * *

Then the doors open to the penthouse, and static snaps in his ears. 

Alastor is not entirely sure what he was expecting, but he’s sure that he hadn’t expected them to be quite so… busy.

Angel: chest bared, face covered in fluids, looking up with glazed eyes and a mouth overflowing-

“My  _ word _ !” he yaps, holding a hand over his eyes. “I was informed that you would be _ready_ for my arrival!” And the noise he heard and the smell- 

“Oh, we’re waiting for you~” Angel snarks, but yelps as  _ something _ happens. An act of domination, Alastor suspects.

Not daring to look, Alastor’s grin grows overwhelmingly wide. He emits a high-pitched tone, comforting jazz weaving in and out of earshot. “I’d like to talk,  _ dressed _ , if you may, gentleman.”

“I never knew you were so sensitive,” Valentino says in a heady voice. “Is this why it’s taken me so long to get your attention, Radio Demon? I never thought you'd be a virgin.” Alastor doesn’t respond. "If you'd like, we could fix that." 

Everything about this is an act of domination, Alastor realises, forcing himself to look at the fellow demons; both thoroughly undressed. "That is entirely inappropriate," he says as coolly as he can, clenching his hands hard around his microphone. Valentino's eyes are hidden behind huge, heart-shaped shades, and he appears to have the same gold tooth that Angel does. A branding. These are the things that he focuses on. Just to show Valentino he can. It lasts a moment before, uncomfortable, he closes his eyes. "If you could please get _dressed_ , then we could discuss our differences as civilised sinners." 

There's several sounds as Valentino and Angel dawdle about in their dressing process. A hard thwack against someone's bottom and a snicker and low whispers that must be dirty talk. 

Valentino dresses in an open robe, red and flashy, hanging over tight, white leather. Angel is surprisingly appropriate in comparison, wearing a dainty purple dress with his knee-high-boots. There’s something very sluggish about him, however and he sits on the floor with a pig, of all things, while Valentino lounges. The overlord of lust gestures towards another couch, which Alastor gratefully takes - feeling whoozier than he’d ever admit over the overpowering stench of demonic fluids. 

The seat, he hopes, is at least clean. 

He’ll wash his suit when he returns, anyway. 

Or burn it, perhaps. 

Alastor puts those thoughts aside. He takes a calming breath through his nose and shifts tracks, returning to his radio host’s persona. Accidents happen. He knows that much, but the likeliness of this being an accident is low. The situation he walked in on was meant to throw him off, and his shock exactly what the loathsome insect had hoped for. 

Valentino would have been keeping tabs of the underworld’s movement; as do all of the most powerful demons. He would have had to know that Angel was the Hotel’s  _ Pride and Joy _ ; their star patient. He also would have known that the Hotel was under Alastor’s supervision. 

This could very well be a deer trap; Angel just a unique flavour of bait. 

Valentino treats him like property rather than a person, after all. It wouldn’t be surprising in the least.

“This is a lovely place you have,” Alastor lies through a smile. The place reeks like one should expect of a cockroach’s abode. Under the bed he can see used rubbers, and there’s a basket overfilled with dirtied clothes. Several spots are stained mysteriously, not just with bodily fluids, but what appears to be wax in some places, and food in others. There are contraptions all over, many of which seem like torture devices if not for the fact that they tend to be red or pink, all covered in little hearts. Alastor doesn't want to know what they're used for, knowing very well that it must be something far more sickening than his personal rack. 

Valentino is flattered by the compliment, smiling crookedly at the praise. “It’s home,” he says. “Now, Radio Demon, what brings you to my door?”

There is no doubt in Alastor’s mind that Valentino knows the answer, but he answers curtly regardless. “It seems you’ve snatched something of worth to me. I’d like to make arrangements to have him back.” 

On the floor, Angel bristles; Valentino, however, seems amused. “And what arrangement would that be?”

Before Alastor can speak, Angel jumps to his feet; holding a pig in two hands, pointing the others at the more powerful demons. “You just gonna sit there and talk about me like I’m some kinda fucking toy?”

The spider demon sneers, and Valentino’s smirk fades to annoyance - leaving Al the smug one. “Baby Doll,” Valentino warns, sitting up to squeeze pink cheeks between his claws. “Sit down and keep quiet. Daddy’s talking.” He pushes Angel’s face away from him, and Angel, uncomfortable and ashamed, sits his backside down on the dirty carpet. 

Alastor’s smile widens, uneasy, but not enough to show. “If I’m interpretting correctly, this date owes you money?”

Valentino nods, spreading his legs wide as he relaxes in his seat once again. “He’s been waltzing around like a common whore looking for money. Highly ineffective practice. Dangerous, too. If he remains in the studio like I keep telling him, I’ll get my money back much faster, I’m sure. Ain’t that right, Angel Cakes?”

Unenthusiastic: “Yes, Val.” 

Alastor hums, and stands up from where he was sitting. A drumroll plays as he paces across the floor. It’s all for show; Alastor’s mind had been made up on the matter since that morning. “I have an idea that’s even better. Plus, it requires no effort at all on your part at all!” 

Valentino’s fingers drum the couch cushion. “You have my attention.” 

“I have plenty of wealth! I’d be willing to make an investment; I’ll have you the money by the end of the night, and I’ll take this little chippy off your hands. You’ll have your money, I’ll have my hotel mascot.” Alastor flourishes, uncurling a piece of paper right beneath the cockroach’s eyes.

A contract written in blood. 

Valentino accepts the offered note, skimming it to confirm that it is - indeed - a fully prepared contract. “Well, this is convincing, but to give up my Sex Muffin over a lack of patience and effort? Why would I accept the money now when all I need to do is wait?"

Radio static crackles in an expectant chuckle. “Well, well, well,” he begins, “Aside from saving you the cost of keeping him,” Alastor side-eyes Angel, who is furious, but pacified by the sheer power of the two demons in the room with him. “Angel will be  _ fully _ protected by me. And if you read this clause here,” he materialises on the chaise, dangerously close to Val, and points out a paragraph right at the bottom of the note - “I will  _ personally  _ see to it that you have my allyship for the course of one favour.

“My methods are inarguably effective for toppling competition. I’d be willing to help you gain control of any one venue within your…  _ ahem _ … Line of Work: brothels, stripclubs, night clubs, studios. You name it? I’ll make it yours. Terms and conditions apply, of course.” 

Alastor pulls away abruptly dusting off where his clothes touched the filthy cretin, and Valentino adjusts his glasses to examine the fineprint. As he’s waiting, Alastor crouches to Angel’s level: “I do hope you’re in agreement with these arrangements.” 

The spider demon glares at him. 

“At least with me in charge, you’ll be granted permission to talk back all you like,” Alastor grins. “Perhaps even treated like a person.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

"Such a creative use of words; I'm enjoying this already." 

Alastor stands upright, eyes far too alight, emitting a pleasant tune. 

All eyes are set on Val. 

* * *

“You can have him. I’ll sign."

* * *

Angel has put up with a lot of shit. 

Somehow, this takes the cake. He manages to sit still, be a good boy while Val takes the pen. Some freaky voodoo magic thing that pricks him so he's writing in his own blood. 

He managed to be quiet while he was discussed like an object (well, almost). 

It's not until Val hands over the contract with an uttering of "There, you have him," that he finally, _finally_ loses it.

“Are you shitting me!?” he demands, turning on Valentino. “You’re just going to hand me over to him? I thought I meant something to you, you fuck!” 

Valentino stands up; smaller than Angel, but a strong grip in Angel's chest fluff helps put him above the other, and he stares him down through darkened lenses. “You will not speak down to me,” he growls “If you had listened to me and just stayed in the studio, you woudn’t have any debt  _ to _ repay. I will not have you making even more of a fool of yourself by-”

“AHEM.” 

A shadow forms between them, and Alastor abruptly pushes them away from one another. Angel glares down at him. Just as bad as Valentino, really. He seriously followed Angel all the way out here just to treat him as much like an object as Val did? Practically fucking _bought_ Angel? 

_ What the Hell? _

“Oh, and don’t get me started on you,” Angel sneers, but the pinstripe prick just fucking chuckles like he’s at a fancy tea party. 

“Well, this has all been fun,” Alastor dismisses Angel. “Now that everything is agreed upon,” he gives Angel a pointed look, “ _We should head home for dinner._ ” 

When Alastor grabs Angel by the arm to lead him out, Angel shoves him off. “Fine,” he gives up. “But I don’t need you to hold my hand.” 

“Very well,” Alastor agrees. “But don’t forget the bacon.” 

* * *

As the elevators begin to close their doors, Angel notices Val looking far too smug for someone who just lost the star of his show and his best fuck. “Remember, Angie Baby,” the cloud of smoke he breathes forms a love heart. “My door is always open to you should you change your mind.” 

And then he’s alone with Alastor. 

* * *

Angel doesn’t break the silence for almost half an hour as they walk back to the hotel (seriously? How does such a rich prick not have a car?) 

“He’s not fucking bacon,” he mutters. Alastor hums confusedly in reply. Fat Nuggets trots along without a care as Angel grumbles. Louder, he says, “I said if you eat my pig, I’ll kill you myself.”

“An unfortunate waste,” Alastor notes, “But though your threat is unconcerning, it’s understood.” 

“His name is Fat Nuggets.”

This causes Alastor to let out a snort of sorts. “I don’t see how _Bacon_ is much worse?” 

“Ugh, nevermind,” Angel groans. His anger has started to fade at the irony of it all, but he’s too stubborn to let go of it just yet. Brushing a hand through his hair, he looks down at the unreadable bambi creep. “So what the fuck was that, anyway? You think you can just waltz in and buy people?” 

“I did not buy you,” Alastor retorts humorously. “Though given the way your gentleman was treating you, I thought it best to allow him to think that was the exchange.”

“So what’s in it for you then? Are you some secretly fucked up kinkster?”

He laughs shrilly at the question, shaking his head. “Never. I only wish for you to be redeemed - it is, after all, what the Hotel was made for. To improve the life of a heathen like yourself.” 

Angel crosses his arms, and looks at a vending machine. As they pass it, he treads slowly. “I don’t think getting caught in a tug-of-war between Hell’s least eligible bachelors is the best way to improve.” 

He’s pulled along faster by Alastor. Bastard. “Neither will sneaking out everyday for drugs, and yet you’ve insisted on doing so the last two weeks.” He laughs, loud and hearty, as Angel reluctantly lets the vending machine pass untouched - he’s got no money left anyway. “So long as your debt is to me, all you will need to concern about is taking the hotel seriously. No more working the streets for drugs, and I’ll make sure you and your Fat Nuggets are comfortable. Do you understand?”

Angel grimaces. “I still don’t know what you gain from this. Wouldn’t me going back to my old ways be entertaining enough for a freak like you?”

But Alastor only smiles. 

* * *

Later that night, on the top floor of the Porn Studio, one demon looks down at the world laid out beneath the pentagram. He sees a metropolis of maggots, all writhing and stinking and oozing. The demon lets out a laugh that crackles with electricity. 

In his hands he holds a screen: speakers blaring curses and blessings and the intimate sounds of flesh and fur and felatio. “Whatever game it is you’re playing, Radio Demon?” he gloats, “I'm one step ahead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angel is angry and tbh? He has every right to be.


	3. Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the torture begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is meh but I'm not gonna spend forever trying to fix it. I got delayed a bit between Christmas and a bit of a disaster at home. Everything's alright though, now. I'm also trying to keep a few chapters ahead so I don't write myself into a corner which was why I pushed posting this back a bit. Plus, I now know where this is going to end. Just not necessarily when. Will try weekly updates from here-on. 
> 
> In the meantime, your comments and all the kudos and bookmarks are just! Amazing!! 1000+ hits in a week is _insane_ and I'm so blessed you all appreciate this fic so much. Some of your comments legitimately thrilled me when I saw them. I'm sorry I don't reply to them all, but I do read and love them so so much.

"Oh good, you're back."

Admittedly, Alastor didn't notice her that time. 

He had been trying to sneak into the hotel after his late show. It's curious that she would still be up, as she's so often awake early. "Yes, I would have seen Angel in, but I had my show to attend to." Alastor allows his microphone to vanish into red smoke, and examines her closely as he continues on his way. "I do hope he didn't give you any trouble." 

Charlie laughs, "No... Angel seemed more mad at you than at us." Alastor huffs in amusement. "He didn't tell me much about what happened. Seemed really," she fidgets with her hands, "He was hesitant to talk about it. As... _As the owner of this hotel_ , I should know. It might be important for his redemption." The look she gives Alastor is firm. "So, since you were there, you should tell me everything you know."

Regarding her, she seems about to put her foot down. It's admirable. As much as Alastor knows she's hesitant to put her money where her mouth is, the groundwork is laid. He needs her support for this part. 

"You're right," he agrees with a debonair smile. Charlie's relief at the lack of conflict is instant. "I should have told you earlier, but if you were there, then he would have blamed you as much as I, and I knew that could prove difficult for you, my dear."

"Oh," she hums. "Yeah, that makes sense... _I guess_." 

Alastor pauses outside his door, leaning against the frame as he finally explains Angel's situation. 

"Angel had been sneaking around for a lover of his." Charlie's face lights up with delight until Alastor adds, "A man who treated him like filth. I intervened, but I fear if something isn't done, Angel just might sneak back out to him again." 

This troubling half-truth has Charlie lost in a deep pit of friendly concern. It's remarkably empathetic of her; or perhaps just pathetic. She seems about to go several directions with her thoughts all at once - stutters out a sound, taps her chin, and then eventually: "We need to _do_ something."

A surge of confidence. "Of course. Now, how do we make sure he's staying out of trouble? After all, the curfew allows him to do whatever he wishes for most of the day."

"We might have to remove the curfew for a bit," Charlie remarks. "But not for the whole hotel. Just for Angel. It'll be like- _grounded!_ He'll be grounded." She beams with the discovery of her completely unguided solution; proud of the humanlike punishment. Alastor's grin gleams its own yellow light. 

"A wonderful idea, darling," he pats her on the head. "Wish I'd thought of it myself. But really, I must retire now."

* * *

Angel wakes up from fitful sleeps, determined to return to his usual schedule. The events of the day before only occupy a dark corner of his mind: much stronger is the need for consistency. For the next fuck. The next fix. Instead, as he approaches the hotel's entrance dressed in his best suit-shirt and short-skirt, he finds Husk less enthusiastic than usual. 

When Angel reaches for the pen, the cat demon actually pulls it _away_. "Can't let you out,” he says.

Angel’s cheeks heat. “Excuse me?” 

“After your stunt yesterday, you’re on lockdown.” 

“What the _fuck_.” 

“Yep. Al's orders. And don’t try to sneak out. That bastard’s got the doorway all Voodoo-ified.” The overgrown cat plucks a deck of cards from his feathers, brandishing it. “You play?”

Turns out Angel sucks at cards about as much as he sucks cock. He offers to exchange services for his money back, but Husk only laughs in his face. So, Husk is left smug, carding the dollar bills he’s stacked, and Angel is left broker than before, trying to figure out where to go from here.

He really doesn't like being trapped again. 

What's the point of jumping from one jail to another? 

At least with Val he had an endless supply of dust and cum to keep his hunger for fun sated. But he isn't exactly bored. Not when everyone won't leave him alone. 

Charlie plays with Fat Nuggets on the lobby floor for almost an hour, asking Angel all sorts of questions about his care. What she can prepare for him to eat. Enrichment. She ends up taking him for a walk, leaving him in the _gentle_ care of her girlfriend. 

Said girlfriend lectures him on how his outside activities affect the hotel’s reputation. Charlie isn’t there, and Angel's pretty agitated about everything that's happened the last twenty-four hours, so it escalates into a screaming match. They both say some things they regret. (“If you’re so great, Ms Perfect, why are you in this firepit in the first place?”) It's a good thing they're both so used to being treated like dirt or they may actually have to deal with apologies.

Niffty grills him for the mess his pig has left her all around the hotel. She’s a lot gentler than Vaggie, and so small Angel goes along with it all. That funky little insect is holding this hotel together with her pint-sized claws. But it's still annoying. He barely keeps from snapping at her as well. 

Alastor doesn’t show. Angel isn’t sure whether that’s a blessing or an insult. 

* * *

The plan is to keep Angel both inside the hotel, and busy. 

It's a difficult task; the whole staff pulls together to make it happen. All except Alastor, who uses the distraction to inspect his bedroom. Charlie had seen it the night before in her frantic search for the missing patient. A gloved hand jams the skeleton key in the door knob, actively disregarding the Do Not Disturb sign. He locks the door behind him when he's in. 

Alastor almost doesn't want to even curse the cardboard box: 'TOYS' scrawled on it in impressive, cursive penmanship. Charlie seemed uncertain about the box when she mentioned it. It's contraband, she admitted. But she's not sure if they should actually enforce that rule: that if she pushes too hard Angel will walk out the door and never come back. There would go their star patient. Alastor managed to convince her, with some unexpected, reluctant agreement from Vaggie, that it should be removed as a part of his grounding. Enabling his sexual deviancies will only serve to strengthen his lust for his partner. At least, that's what Alastor managed to argue. He hadn't expected Vaggie to agree; she's generally so forward-thinking. 

With a snap of his fingers, the cardboard box goes up in flames. It's gone in an instant, leaving an angry scorch mark that Niffty will lecture Al for later. The box is fine - kept safe in a place Angel won't find it. Alastor would never waste leverage. 

He continues his search of the room; not finding anything particularly unexpected. Women's clothing. An extra few items he suspects to be sex toys under the bed vanish. And something in the bathroom that also seems like it may be a sex toy. It takes a while, but Alastor eventually feels he's thoroughly searched the room. 

On his way out, he pauses at the door. Checks the time, then, pricks his finger.

He draws a figure on the wall. A cross, suspended on a platform of stars and swivelling lines. Round, swirling patterns where the crosses masts intersect. It stands out, stark and red for a moment; somewhere between a crucifixion and a flower in bloom. After a moment, the bloody vèvè seeps into the wall, becoming near invisible. Only then, does Alastor leave. 

* * *

When he can finally get some peace, Angel retreats to his room, and the comforting vibrations of keyclicks on his phone. Cherri, as far as Angel can tell, is the only person who truly cares. He does nothing but lay on his bedroom floor, texting her for hours. Fat Nuggets curiously snuffles up to him a few times, but mostly the pig entertains himself by rooting around the sock drawer Angel left open. It's peaceful, but not particularly enticing. He stretches his arms out maybe a dozen times, shifts positions. Jumps on the bed instead, until Fat Nuggets begins squealing for attention, and then he has to either let the pig on the bed (and face Niffty's wrath for it tomorrow) or relocate to the floor. 

Cherri is mostly busy. It's great she has a life and all, but when Angel is bored out of his mind? He selfishly wishes he had her full attention. 

He hovers over Val's contact for a while, too. He considers sending something. An "I miss the taste of your cock" or "Please get me out of here" or something, but when he tells Cherri about the urge, she asks him to promise not to. He makes no promises, but his pride makes him delete the messages before they're sent, and he knows Val isn't going to text him until it could serve him. 

They manage to slip in a phone call after lunch. Cherri offers to blow up the hotel, which gives Angel a good laugh. 

It's a tempting offer; way more fun that waiting. But he doesn't want her tangled in his messes. Would Alastor hurt her? The chance is too high.

Angel daydreams over the possibility for hours on end, and they keep him giddy enough as he wears down. 

* * *

Then the coke ran dry. All the good parts of it gone from his system, leaving him with nothing but an itch to get his hands on some more. 

That's when he realises his eightball - hidden expertly amongst a bunch of sex toys nobody in their right mind would touch long enough to look through - is gone. 

Removed. 

Out of sight.

A scorch mark remains where it had been, and it's not warm still. It's been gone for a while. When?

Angel searches the room, desperate that maybe he's misinterpreted. Those marks could be some kinda weird, charcoaly mould (it's Hell? that's possible, right?). Fat Nuggets may have just pushed it while Angel wasn't paying attention to him. The desperation rises as he confirms it’s nowhere on the floor. It’s been moved. By a person. Someone sentient. With hands.

 _“Fucker!”_ he says it so loud that Fat Nuggets squeals, trotting away into the bathroom.

Through his fury, Angel does recall that he has at least one more stash. 

He opens his closet, finding a blue dress with a thick, heavy skirt gathered around the waist in a way that makes the pockets barely noticeable. He fishes around; past condom wrappers and spare change and eventually - pulls out a handy little packet of white. 

Not a lot, but enough to get him through the day. 

* * *

He makes three tidy white lines on his desk. 

Just take a deep breath in, Ange, you can do this.

Don’t freak out. 

* * *

“Who the fuck stole my sex toys!?”

Angel forces his way into the lobby, heaving with annoyance. All eyes turn on him - Husk, the asshole-looking customer he’s serving, Charlie.

 _Vaggie_. “They're contraband. _You_ agreed on day one you wouldn't bring that shit into the hotel.” 

Seething, Angel gets right in her face. “Everybody _fucks_!” he snaps. “You telling me you don’t eat Charlie’s pussy?”

“Angel!” cries Charlie, scandalised. 

“Don’t you talk about her like that!” Vaggie warns in a dangerous tone, summoning a gleaming blade. 

“Oho _ho_! What you gonna do, babe?” he leans down to her level. “You realise violence is a sin, too, right?”

After a few muttered words in Spanish, Vaggie lets the weapon fade. “Maybe for most people, Angel, sex is fine,” she growls, “But if you can’t go one day without your sex toys, you’ve got a problem.”

They stare each other down - Angel can’t argue that. Not without letting her know he’s got six perfectly good hands and a secret stash of blow. Instead, he lets out an irritated growl, throwing up his hands. “Fine!” he jeers, turning around. “You win this round, bitch.” 

* * *

Giving up wasn’t that easy. He tried to seduce just about all the hotel residents and staff into getting him fixed with miserable results. Apparently, someone (Vaggie, most likely) spread a rumour around the hotel that he’s got crabs. It’s not true in the slightest, but coupled with his reputation…

Sneaky bitch.

Angel’s attempts land him back in his bedroom, alone with his pig, listening to emo music on his hellphone. 

* * *

Knock, knock. Six o’clock. 

Time to eat, but it’s not cock. 

_Fuck_ , this shit stinks.

* * *

When Angel opens the door, his dinner is served beneath a row of grimy yellow teeth, pulled into a scheming grin. Not Charlie or Niffty, who usually do the hostwork (because of their lovable faces). A whole, skinny deer with a grin like a shark. 

“The fuck are you doing here?”

“Delivering your dinner, of course,” Alastor declares, as if this happens everyday, and there’s no such thing as ulterior motives. “You made quite the scene today. You even humiliated the princess in front of one of the hotel residents.” 

“Huh?”

“A rather, shall we say, uh… _closed-minded,_ would-be resident.” 

“ _Oh_.” Angel bites his cheek. “Well, I guess- serves her right for touching my shit.” 

Alastor hums in agreement. “Vaggie is quite unpredictable. May I come in for dinner?”

Taken aback, Angel pulls away from the door. Alastor intuitively takes it as a yes, bringing in a tray - three bowls - inside with him. “I’ll uh, _set a table_?” This seems like the right thing to say, if the softening of Alastor's smile is much of a cue. Angel hurries to clear debris off his desk. All the wigs find a new place on the floor, and then he drags the entire desk away from the wall; closer to the bed. Through all his fuss, Alastor observes him with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. 

“There,” Angel finally declares, placing the chair on the side opposite the bed. “Huh, that’s not so bad. Just a moment.” 

He takes one of the bowls from Alastor, and places it in the bathroom. Niffty's pretty touchy about pig-related messes, so he figures if it’s in the bath cleanup won’t be that big of a deal. Better yet, it means Fat Nuggets is out of the way during what Angel only assumes is a business meeting with a man who would sooner eat either one of them than put up with incessant oinking. 

When he closes Fat Nuggets in, Alastor has set the table up; a bowl and spoon for each of them, and some napkins, too. All that’s missing is a candle and it could almost be a romantic meal. 

Alastor inspects the seat below him before sitting, and Angel rolls his eyes before sitting down where the desk meets the bed. “What’s this?” he asks, eyeing the bowl. Rice, but it’s a sort of brownish colour, heartily mixed with vegetables and little lumps of meat. 

“ _Dirty_ rice,” answers the Radio Demon. “I thought it would suit you well,” long-dead voices laugh along with the joke, but Angel only chuffs. 

“ _Hah, hah_. Didn’t think you had a sense of humour that wasn’t schadenfreude,” he admits.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me…” Alastor says cryptically, and the air around him fizzles; runes appearing viscerally around his head. Within a moment, it’s all painted over with an incredibly fake, too-pleasant expression. “Why, but you probably knew plenty about that Valentino fellow. I don’t suppose you’d like to talk about that.” He begins eating in an effort to seem casual as he wais for Angel to answer him. 

So that’s his game, huh? 

Thinks he can make a rat out of Angel. Angel’s lip quirks thoughtfully - no chance in Hell. 

“What kinda meat is this here?” he asks, intentionally evasive. “I mean, not to sound paranoid or nothin’, but people talk. Apparently you have some pretty uh… interesting tastes.” 

Alastor blinks. “It’s liver. So-”

“Whose liver?”

“ _Chicken_ liver, Charlie insists I don't cook demon in the hotel.” 

“Oh, that’s fine then.” Angel leans on one hand, pushing the rice around the edge of the bowl a little more with the other, and drumming his fingers on the desk with a third. He looks up at Alastor before placing some in his mouth. 

“Now, as I was saying before-”

Angel moans with exaggerated delight, and Alastor’s glare turns into wide-eyed discomfort. There’s a twitch on the right side of his face: the corner of his mouth, but more notably a tremble in his eyebrow. Just as his mouth opens to say something else, Angel cuts in with a mouthful of “Mthish rrerhy goomh.”

All the radio emits is a much higher frequency pulse than before, a painful shrill of static that persists until Angel has thoroughly swallowed, and hovers over his next spoonful with a knowing look. 

Alastor’s eyes and mouth close for a moment, frequency stabilising with a sharp inhale through his nose. “I know what you’re doing, Angel,” he remarks, grin becoming vicious. Rows of yellow, carnivorous teeth gleaming in the awful yellow light of Angel’s bedroom. “I understand that being an informant may not appeal to you, but given your position I think it would be wise if I were to know as much as I possibly can about your uh… gentleman friend.” 

Gentleman friend? What kinda old-fashioned asshole-

Still, if there’s anything Angel’s learned, it’s that Alastor likes to think he’s in control. 

He’s not. 

He couldn’t be further from it. And seeing him grapple to keep that control is honestly giving Angel a huge surge of satisfaction. 

Alastor wants to know about Val?

Let him know about Val. 

“Okay,” Angel sighs dramatically. “But where to start..." he drums a set of fingers along his cheek, leaning into his palm. "So the thing with Valentino is he’s probably the best I’ve had in Hell, if I’m being real. He’s not afraid to get weird. Real creepy-kinda-weird. We did this thing once with his antennae-”

“I think that’s enough.” Alastor cuts him off. As Angel cackles in delight at the response, the Radio Demon scarfs down the rest of his rice in mere seconds. “Oh my, looks like I’m already finished.” 

Angel barely contains himself enough to grit out: “What’sa matter, bucko? You walkin’ out on our hot date?” 

“ _Enthusiastically_ ,” Alastor replies, dusting off his pants. “If you insist on protecting that insect, there’s nothing that can be done for it, is there?”

Wrong. There are so many ways to force someone to talk: Angel’s no stranger to torture. Still, he nods. “Ain’t nothing you can do,” he agrees. 

With a grin that definitely isn’t surrender, Alastor takes his leave. Angel stares into a bowl of dirty rice, glad to have won over the demon for now, but fearful of what’s yet to come. How far is he willing to go to protect Val? How fucked is he if he doesn’t?

He'll just have to see whatever tomorrow brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter name: Angel avoids manipulation by being annoying


	4. Dicking Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Al do some detective work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Either I write a draft and come back days/weeks later and it's like "heck how did I write something so nice?" or it's like "ugh this is so wrong I can't even-" and I'm so sorry but this is the latter and I'm forcing myself to post anyway because I'm craving all the support you lot have given me. 200 kudos!! Nearly 2000 hits. Thank you so much for all the comments too I love them. <3 Also, there's a little rant at the bottom about my Angel Dust gender/sex headcanon for this fic, since I only recently committed to the headcanon.

It's not exactly like Val needs Angel to protect him. Valentino is a capable demon. He's strong, he has a lot of influence. Sex sells. Everybody loves porn. You can't just cut Hell's supply of porn off and expect to survive. Not even Alastor has enough power to stand up against the revolution that would cause.

Alastor has got to know that. So he wouldn't be taking Valentino out of the game.

So why exactly does he want to know more about Val? Is that seriously all he gains from the exchange?

The questions plague Angel well after Alastor has gone and left. 

* * *

Alastor is unsure why Angel remains so loyal to the roach. He certainly had done nothing to earn it. Is it a pride thing? 

Perhaps, it's the influence that the insect has over Angel's compulsions. 

Alastor needs Angel to be sober so they can advertise the hotel. But if he wants intel, he'll have to find a way to appease the addict. At least enough so that they can cooperate together.

* * *

Angel still isn't allowed outside the next morning. He drums his fingers along the bar in annoyance before he leans close to Husk. "Do you know why Al cares so much?" he asks. 

Husk shrugs, cleaning the rim of a glass he's holding. "He cares about this hotel more than he cares about his skin right now." 

"Well, sure, okay. So what does that have to do with _me_?"

"Publicity," Husk guesses with a candid shrug. "I don't fuckin' know what that witch is ever up to."

That's when Charlie approaches with her own opinions: "Maybe the Happy Hotel is infecting Al, too," she says with a forced cheer. "Look, I'm not sure if his intentions matter as much as the fact that this could be _good_ for you, Angel. Those drugs make you pretty... uh..." As she struggles to explain herself, with little _boom_ , _pfft_ , _pow_ noises and hand gestures, she notices the skeptical looks Angel and Husk are shooting her, and cuts herself off with a nervous laugh. "It's always best to look at the positives, guys." 

Husk mutters something about ignorance, and Angel just looks down at his reflection in his drink - _water, ugh_. He looks like crap: gaunt, tired. Valentino was right: he has put on a bit of weight thanks to the hotel's meal routine, and the withdrawal has turned his Snack Metre up to one thousand. Maybe he should request Niffty cut off his pillowtop praline supply, just to remove the temptation. 

"Look, Angel, I've got something for you," Charlie interrupts his thoughts, taking up the barstool next to him. She shows him a piece of paper - ridiculously colourful, she's put a border of happy faces around it, but it appears to just be a list. "These are some things you can do without leaving the hotel. Things that aren't flirting with other customers, or fighting with Vaggie. Plus, if you do them, you'll earn tokens for drinks. It's a win-win, right?"

Angel inspects the list: front and back covered with lame activities. Number One is "Help Somebody" with a caveat about not committing genocide. 

* * *

The screen is covered in small print that Alastor can hardly see even when he squints at it. The white background is far too bright, and the text much too close together. If not for that, his complete lack of competence with the keys would have been enough to discourage him from attempting to interact with it. He leans heavily against the back of Niffty's desk chair, choosing instead to watch her as she uses the machine; talking him through her processes without ever wavering focus from the bright wall of light. Fascinating. 

"Apparently he manifested in Hell in 1947, died young. Suicide? No, no, just an overdose. He has a MyBlaze account," the screen flickers to something else for a brief moment, Niffty barely giving a glance before returning to the wall of text, "It hasn't been used in years, though. Which isn't surprising, nobody really uses it now. He has two extra arms! I guess that would make sense. Oh- he's got family here." 

That catches Al's interest. "What family?"

"Yeah. They used to be a huuuuuge crime family on earth. But they're not too powerful as demons. You wouldn't need to worry about them at all." Niffty uses the oblong clicker to further examine the details. She goes through several different pages entirely, but ends with a sigh and back where she began (Alastor assumes, it's difficult to tell). "There's not really a lot of information on where they are now. _Uwaaa_ , I hope they survived the latest extermination..." 

"Never mind, dear," Alastor says, giving the smaller demon a pat on her head. "I'll just have to track them down in my own way! I haven't had a good hunt since the Summer of 1932. If you could just," he pushes a piece of paper towards her. "Write their names here." 

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_I’m stuck in here or whatever. Charlie gave me a list of things I can do until Alastor lets me out, which is why I’m writing this shit. Pretty sure this is Al’s way of trying to torture information on Val out of me. It ain’t gonna work though._

_Al and Val. Pretty similar. Maybe there’s meaning in names afterall._

* * *

Angel gives up, dropping the spiral notebook in one of the desk drawers and slamming his head against the desk. After a moment of just feeling miserable, he grabs the book back out - writing a list of the things he knows about Alastor. 

Between his talk with Vaggie, asking Cherri, and a bit of brief research, he knows the basics well enough. The guy owns a radio tower and runs Hell's most popular station. There are two other stations he owns, but doesn't seem to personally involve himself in much, with the only real competition being Vox's music channels. Alastor also owns a store called Radio Hacks. Based on the gore stuffed in every gap of the window's display, it's the kind of place any sane demon would avoid (But most demons aren't sane).

He manifested in 1933. Despite that he seems to have experience in the Radio Gig before dying, nobody's mentioned who he was before. If anybody in Hell knows who he was, Angel suspects Al knew how to keep them quiet about it. Most likely permanently. For the last seventy years Alastor's been slowly losing relevance to the rise of television. He's there, but hidden in the background. Dormant. Doing his own thing in his lonely radio tower. 

At least until the hotel. 

Until whatever this deal is between them. 

So what does Alastor want?

Vox, maybe. The Telly demon is pretty fucking powerful, and certainly someone he could see Al dancing with. He and Valentino are very connected, but why not just ask Angel about Vox, then? No, Valentino is more than just a pawn in this. Alastor needs him, as well. Maybe he really is just some perverted creep. Maybe he wants to run a sexy radio show. Or maybe all those years doing nothing but being a prude have him aching for release. 

What's wrong with Angel then?

Sure, Alastor could be straight, but- for real? Angel's got the parts to make it work. 

He finds himself at a loss trying to get into the demon's head, and focuses his attention elsewhere. Like the headache spreading through his brain, and the itch - _the itch, the itch, the itch_. He's crashes fully at some point. Face-first in his pillow, Fat Nuggets sniffing at his fingers as they dangle over the bed. He finds himself unable to do much but read Charlie's handy little book of Happy Pasttimes In the Happy Hotel. 

* * *

**[BO$$]: Hows the radio demon treating you baby cakes?**

**[Angie ♡]: Doing great Val.**

* * *

He's not doing great. 

He knows he’s on a slow decline. What’s left of his own special brand is losing it’s mark, and he’s been constantly craving coke, to boot. It’s groggy work being undead. He’s given three meals a day and someone keeps leaving glasses of white rum at his door in the mornings. Other than that? Quiet.

He doesn't leave his room. Far too depressed for it, and his head is filled with a pounding headache that gets worse and worse as the PCP withdrawal blends with the Cocaine withdrawal and he's sweaty, but cold, and painflly uninterested in anything that isn't whatever food is left at his door. He looks in the mirror at himself and he feels less sure about his anatomy than he has in years, finding the places where it's squishy like Val said and rolling them between his claws and wishing he had the capacity to go days without eating like he did when he was with Val. And then at the end of the day he goes to sleep, and tosses and turns with nightmares. But it all starts again with a myserious glass of white rum, three meals, and plenty of piggy playtime to make the underworld seem less empty. 

Charlie is the only person he gets to see for real. She checks in on him at every meal, delivers them herself. If he gives her his notebook, she gives it enough of a flick to be proud of him for journalling, and hands it back without every really reading what he wrote. She tells him he's still in lockdown when he asks about it. She tries to encourage him to leave his room. To get some air in the garden with her (supervised, of course), but eventually takes Fat Nuggets without him. Cherri calls him, too. They talk for ten minutes or three hours; whatever the day calls for. 

After about five days, he's completely out of Fuel. Desperate.

* * *

**[Angie ♡]: He aint lettin me have any drugs.**

No reply.

* * *

_If I don't get something to keep the edge of soon, I'm gonna shoot my way out._

* * *

It takes Alastor about a week to find her. 

He began with a bogus announcement; dropping the names Niffty gave him as winners to some prize he made up on the spot. Unfortunately, they forgot to label their raffle tickets with their address - how silly? What could they possibly have to fear from the Radio Demon knowing their address?

After many geniuses sending him their addresses and requesting to claim the prize for themselves (he may just give them a prize for their insolence), a few finally had information on one of the mentioned creatures: Molly. 

Alastor isn't sure what to expect of her, but she's not in any common slum. She's in the same neighbourhood as ~~Franklin &~~ Rosie's. Perhaps not quite an overlord herself, but certainly a demon not to be trifled with.

Her house is huge; obnoxiously pink, and covered in trellisses, roses slithering over the entire structure, a rich green door to match the mass of vines clinging to it. The house reminds him distinctly of something he may have dreamt of as a child. She even has garden gnomes, hand-painted figures holding weapons rather than tools.

Their features are all different, with such specific details and care. It's not until Alastor finds the set of five residing just at the entrance that it occurs to him fully what they represent: the one he suspects represents Angel is drawn almost as effeminate as his current self. A lavish fur around his neck, pink pinstripes, and a tommy gun in his hands; he's biting on a cigarette, a savage grin on his face. The figurine stands out as the most Angel-like based on the rather pretty features, and the more _expressive_ clothing choices. More modest than the current Angel, but not by much. The similarities become clearer the longer Alastor looks. He doesn't look American. Not to Alastor, at least. So that would mean he was most likely an immigrant? Alastor isn't sure - too much effort to keep up with a history that doesn't affect him any longer, but he supposes he can consult some literature on it later. 

He's examining the handiwork for a long time, trying to discern other details about it - a smattering of dark freckles, blonde hair that turns dark at its roots (bleached), gloves that don't reach his wrists, only one eye open-

Alastor freezes as the front door swings wide. He hears a voice dripping in sweet poison, and a strong Boston accent - "What're you doin' here?" - followed by the familiar cackle of a rifle cocked and aimed. "I heard your little callout on the radio. You have it out for _mia famiglia_?" 

"No, no, no," Alastor says with a chuckle. "My dear, if I'd wanted to hurt you I would have _lead_ with that." 

"Don't you call me dear," she warns, lowering the gun just enough for Alastor to place the Angel gnome back where it was, and give Molly a good look. She looks right back, and they size each other up enthusiastically. Molly is tall, very similar to her brother, but beneath the caked makeup there's a sense of having _lived_ through much more. Just a touch weary underneath. Her choice in outdoor decor, especially, give Alastor the sense that she lost a lot in her life. 

"Of course," Alastor agrees. "What would you have me call you, Miss..?"

"Jus' Molly's fine, dear."

Alastor blinks. "... _Molly_ ," he says her name. "I'm actually not particularly interested in you or your family's current affairs. I'm simply here on behalf of your brother, Angel." 

She squints at him for a long time, but her skepticism quickly shifts to warmth, and the gun is lowered entirely. "You a sweetheart of his?"

"More of a sponsor," he corrects smoothly, and the warmth is smothered. "May we talk?"

Beyond the dark green oak of her door, Molly's interior is almost as pink as her exterior. The pinks are toned down to pastels, however, and quartered off with much more agreeable shades of white. She disappears into the kitchen with an offer of tea, telling Alastor to stay put in the drawing room. There's a stack of fashion magazines on the middle table, and a display case of assorted firearms. There's a romance novel dog-eared on her chair, and a radio playing from his main station - currently, just a constant hum of jazz. She has a dial phone, and a 90's model television. He tries to find similar signs of her family ties in the room, but finds little to grasp onto beyond a portrait of herself and her father on the wall. The roses extend into the house, however; trimmed and placed into vases. 

When Molly returns, Alastor has taken one of the plush seats, sunk deep into the cushion, and she places a pot along with an excess of cookies on the middle table, followed shortly after by two teacups and an attempt at tidying her magazines. "So, how'd that brother of mine end up in your graces, Radio Demon?"

Alastor chuckles, waiting for Molly to pour herself tea and take a sip before he serves himself. "Are you and Angel close with the rest of your family?"

Her eyelashes flutter. "Pops and I only see each other at holidays, I started realising how _backwards_ he was in the sixty's, so we split off." She looks a little devious as she adds, "I took the most of his boys. Arackniss comes over now an' then for food and a talk, but he's still loyal to pops. Angel and I _were_ close when we were alive, but ain't talked much since dyin'." 

"And your mother?"

"Heaven, we hope."

Alastor nods thoughtfully. Then, "Are you aware of what your brother has been up to this past decade?"

"Pornography, mostly," she says with a cautious look at Alastor. "It's been a conversation topic at every family reunion.... We keep tabs on him, but in his line of work. Well, a lady like myself can't very well walk into a place like that. I'd be askin' for trouble on my own. And if I took my triggermen I'd be askin' something worse... I listen to your show. Didn't think it was your style, Radio Demon."

"Gracious, de-" she shoots him daggers before he readjusts himself, " _Molly_ ," then immediately drops the hostility to smile sweetly. "Your initial assumptions were correct. It's not my thing at all. I run a hotel with the princess: we hope to help sinners to make it to Heaven." He watches her reaction closely, noticing a well-practiced, sweet-as-sugar poker face. "Angel is one of our residents. Our first and most popular, in fact. But he's _troubled_ , as I'm sure you know. I was hoping that as his family, you might have an idea how I can make him feel comfortable enough to begin... _growing_. Changing for the better." 

She keeps up a breezy smile, shifting backwards into the embrace of her couch cushions. She takes a sip of her tea, cradling it in a saucer and crosses her other set of arms. For a moment, Molly is thoughtful. "You really wanna help him?" she wonders. 

"Truly."

This doesn't have Molly convinced. "D'ya have his number on you?" 

Clearly, he's going to need to ensure her of Angel's wellness. 

"I've never been partial to phones," Alastor confesses, waving his hands dismissively. "If you're worried about him, I'll make sure you can keep tabs on him. I can give you the address," he thinks it over cautiously for a moment. "You may arrive on your own time. No need for visitting hours. Of course, if it seems a visit from you may be detrimental to Angel's recovery, we can refuse you entrance."

Molly giggles. "And you get to choose when that is?" she assumes correctly.

Never minding that, Alastor's smile widens. "Too much potential for bias, of course," he admits, dashing that concern away. Stations switch, rolling through frequencies until he finds an answer that _seems_ fair, but ultimately, leaves him with the bulge of the agreement. "No, no, no. It won't be up to myself alone: your brother and our princess will have a say as well. Does that sound to your liking? Best of _three_."

"If I'm not allowed in the hotel, then you still need to keep me updated on his progress," Molly declares protectively. "And I need to know for what reasons I'm being denied."

Record scratch. "Sounds like a deal to me!" 

"Gotta be honest about it, too. Ya swear on your turf?" 

Deep breath, eyes closed, a static crackle. " _Sounds fair_..." 

They both hesitate a moment; and Alastor knows that she's also thinking of how to bleed the deal further without losing it entirely. In the end, he wants too much for her to give her the low down on their mutual concern, and she seems too enticed by a reunion with her brother. Their hands meet. 

The promise is made. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had trouble deciding on cis or trans (or: penis or vagina) Angel Dust until I realised I was missing the rare, third option. Angel is intersex, and wouldn't identify himself as either trans or cis. His experience is uniquely intersex. Anyways, intersex characters seem almost consistently used for fetishisation or as a joke, so I was hoping it may be refreshing to have one with a bit of depth and thought put into him. Intersex characters are also commonly represented in an inaccurate way, and if you take Angel's demon form at face value, this would be yet another inaccurate interpretation. So I'm going to explain Angel's condition, how I believe it was interpreted in his life, and how it has impacted his demon form/life in Hell. 
> 
> Angel was born with chromosomes XX, and Non-Salt Wasting Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia (CAH for short). Although not common, there are some sources saying that this specific form of CAH will occasionally come with ambiguous genitalia at birth (enlarged clitoris), and as such, Angel was assigned male at birth. There were certainly some doubts from his parents at times about his gender, but it was all kept a well-guarded family secret. Until Angel was about 10. He began puberty early, and began to develop female traits. This caused a lot of concern. At this young age, Angel was dead set that he identified as a boy. The doctor took pity on his struggle, and focused procedures towards allowing Angel to continue living as a man. However, the things they were able to do at the time were limited, and dangerous. It wouldn't be until he was nearly an adult, and realised that he was gay, that he would truly begin realising how unfair it all was. He'd begin embracing his femininity, to attract other men, but many things could not have been undone.
> 
> In Hell, Angel's body felt truer to himself than ever. It took a bit of time getting used to being pink, sure. But he liked his breast-fluff. He liked being feminine, masculine, and also vaguely terrifying. He has more hands than he knows what to do with (so tucking away the third pair most of the time). His genitals are, similar to his hands, unrealistic. The short answer is: sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both, always functional. Being completely fluid sex-wise is a dream come true to Angel. And it definitely helped him secure his fame in the porn industry.


	5. Packing Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor explores Angel's talents, some new arrangements are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence.

It’s no good. There's no way to get drugs short of shooting his way out, and he's still not desperate enough to pull such a risky move (not yet). It'd make things worse.

He does have an idea, though. 

Thanks to operation _Hazbin Hotel_ , he missed his weekly hook-up with one of his best clients. Sweet guy; Gary. Angel gave him his number after their first fuck. He’s a lonely, cuddly bear; all tender and sweet and not afraid of the cost. Honestly, he’s _too_ perfect. 

And when Angel didn’t show up at the club for their weekly bone? He even texted to see if everything was alright. 

So the arrangements were made. Angel’s sugar bear is coming to the hotel for the night: they’re gonna share a room after lights-out and Angel’s shift is gonna be paid in drugs. It’s not a permanent solution, but maybe Angel can convince Gare Bear to stay a little longer. At least until Alastor gives up on him. He'll have a ready booty call. Gary's a good guy. They can convince everyone he's a genuine resident. Plus, Angel might even give the guy a loyalty discount of sorts. 

So he manages to drag himself from bed, weary as he may be, with the help of a shitload of caffeine. He dolls himself up - pushes his fluff up so it’s barely contained within his suit, wears a playful miniskirt and he puts powder in his fur. He plays with and combs his hair to get it just right, and by the time he’s ready to go, Fat Nuggets is rooting around the carpet in a way that means _Out_. He does his best to ensure Alastor's absence before finally making his way downstairs and texting Gary the O.K.

* * *

Gary arrives with the good stuff an hour later. Angel knows he has the good stuff, because the wards, not even noticeable before, glow red as he passes them. 

Angel tries to make an exit before Alastor arrives, but the Radio Demon gets some sort of sick pleasure out of tormenting him, so of course he materialises right in Angel’s way. “You’re keen to split,” Alastor observes with a knowing smile. 

"I thought you were out," Angel snarks back, arms crossed. 

Alastor gives him a look that's way too knowing; edging on predatory. It makes Angel more uncomfortable than he'll let Alastor know. "I was merely out for tea," Alastor explains dismissively, though his voice loses it's performative edge as he takes in the scene before him: a large, purple demon signing in with a skeptical Husk. "Seems one of my wards was tripped. I don't suppose you've been into any underhand dealings?"

Gary is giving a spiel about how he wants to get better or whatever. It’s believable: Angel wouldn’t believe Gary belongs in Hell if he hadn’t been there for the post-orgasm guilty ramblings. It’s useless. Husk definitely noticed the ward which summoned Alastor. And Alastor - one hand way too tight around Angel’s wrist - approaches Gary and clears his throat. Dragging Angel behind him like a pet on a leash. 

“Angel!” Gary says enthusiastically, all dirty fuzz and toothy grins, and Angel drops his head in his remaining hands out of shame. 

“Hey, Gary,” he sighs back. 

Alastor must be feeling pretty smug, because the jazzy undertones that follow him like bad body odour pick up. “Gary, is it?” he says, free hand reaching out to shake. “A pleasure to meet you, but I do expect you’ll hand over any contraband to our lovely bartender.” 

A nervous laugh from Gary, who lets go of Alastor to scratch the back of his head. “I… _wow_ you’re the _Radio Demon_. Big fan- I uh.. contraband?”

When Alastor finally releases Angel, his claws have left a red ring around the wrist, and Angel rubs the spot soothingly. Oblivious to any violent glaring from Angel, Alastor continues, “Husker?” Husk perks. “Search him before you give him the keys.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me-”

“ _Now_ , my friend, we don’t have all day.” 

* * *

One shockingly thorough search later (Angel’s surprised both Gary and Alastor put up with it for that long) Alastor has successfully undermined Angel's plot. He dangles the small plastic bag in front of Angel's face; a harsh reminder of just how close Angel was - he can't resist but to take a swipe at it, but Alastor is too quick. His blood rushes hot with frustration. 

“I’ll be taking this outside,” Alastor declares, smug grin inches away from Angel's face, “And I’ll be putting it in the _trash_. If you try anything like this again, darling, I’ll need to confiscate that pocket device of yours, too.” 

Gary tries to comfort Angel with a pat on the shoulder, but watching his last ditch effort for release walk out of that door with such a smug face, something inside Angel snaps. 

There’s no way this fucked up detox is going any longer. Angel refuses to accept it. He's tired. He's hungry. He's sore. It's like there's a hole in his head and he's huddled up half-nude on a steel cot, and everybody thinks they know what's _best for him_. 

He summons a glock; hears the crackle of static as Alastor notices him and turns, a distant sound like dogs barking. 

Angel shoots a single warning shot.

 _Bang_.

Loud and ringing, the noise echoes throughout the near-empty hotel like an alarm. But all Angel can see is that the bastard's shoulder bleeds red just like any other game.

And Angel watches with a burning satisfaction as he freezes with surprise, a deer locked in the trance of a set of headlights. Angel readjusts his aim - a red x marks the spot as he sees Alastor's eyes buzz with interference. 

"Give me the fucking drugs or I'll show you what it's like to be missing part of your brain."

* * *

Alastor manages to smile out of spite as heat spreads through his arm. His teeth clench hard, but all he projects is a smile and a confusing array of sounds - footsteps in grass, a dog howling, the tear of flesh - that fester beneath an increasing shriek of static. His shadows all cackle silently around him, mocking Alastor in his surprise or cheering on Angel's brutality: he's not sure. Alastor doesn't think far into it, his mind stuck on his conversation with Molly. She was right.

There's much more use to Angel than he first assumed. How he ended up stuck under Valentino's thumb for so long, Alastor has no idea. 

If he has the gall to shoot empty threats at the Radio Demon, why would he have dealt with that slimy cockroach for so long?

Husk cuts Angel's show of strength short, tackling him to the ground and wrenching the gun from his hand with efficiency that only comes from experience. With Angel's four arms secured, the poor nelly tries to summon his infamous third set of arms. Before he can make any use of them, Alastor restrains him with shadowy tendrils. 

He approaches Angel, smiling down at him with intrigue even as he digs into his shoulder to pick out the lead. He flicks the bloodied bullet so it hits Angel’s forehead on the way down. 

* * *

“Kinky,” Angel says, looking up at Alastor with a shit-eating grin. The bullet bounces off his head, landing on the carpet. He wriggles beneath Husk, “You know, I always hoped you’d top me, schnookums.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Husk grimaces.

Because the tentacles are wrapped tightly around him by now, Husk gets off Angel, leaving him to Al's hentai horror. He confiscates the glock, taking it with him to his bar. Angel thinks his claws shake a little as he empties the magazine, but he's too busy being annoyed at Alastor to really care. 

“So, what else are these tentacles good for?” 

“Nothing you’ll like, I’m sure,” Alastor replies, his voice carrying a warning tone. “Perhaps I haven’t been clear enough with you, Angel,” he lifts Angel off the ground, suspending him spread-eagle before him, smug fucking grin right across his face. “Your contract is with _me_ now. While you were supposed to get a bit more freedom than you do under Valentino, you have made it exceedingly difficult for me to trust you.” 

He has a good point. 

“You know when you talk all evil like that it’s a little sexy.” 

Alastor’s smile falters; just a quirk of the lip but oh-so-satisfying. He reaches for Angel’s pockets, finding a few condoms which he drops like hot irons before he eventually happens upon Angel’s Hellphone. “No,” Angel says harshly, “Wait-” it disappears in a puff of fire. 

Angel’s heart aches for that little device. A few months ago he didn’t even know what a pocket phone was, and yet it’s become such an important part of his life, and he just-

Cherri. Val. He can’t get in touch with them without it. “ _Asshole!_ ” Angel goes to spit, but Al steps out of his way, making the attempt look pathetic. 

“Gary?” Alastor beckons the rather terrified looking teddy bear. He pats the man’s shoulder reassuringly. “It's great to meet my audience! I know this wasn’t your plan,” he assures him, grabbing one of those thick paws and placing the 10mg baggie of PCP in the open palm. “It’s for the best that you go home and take this with you. As it seems my associate is so offended by its waste. But know if I catch you doing this again?" he leans close to Gary, whispering something in his ear. The radio static is too irritating to eavesdrop over, but the intention is clear. Especially at the trepidated gulp as Alastor leans away with that evil grin.

Big, brown eyes look between Angel and Alastor - Gary's face wrought with fear and concern. Angel tries not to feel too hopeless when he finally walks out the door. 

* * *

The clean-up begins. 

Niffty complains about Al’s blood on the wallpaper, but makes quick work of it. Her and Husk are both sworn to secrecy on the details of the event. Luckily, Vaggie and Charlie are on an advertising drive. Angel wonders how much they'll be told about it (probably very little).

And so within moments Angel’s outburst is easily thrown under the rug. A minor lapse of control, on Alastor’s part. A temper tantrum. 

Alastor leaves Angel strung up for almost twenty minutes; ordering Husk to make several calls for him that Angel can't hear properly over the racket of his radio static. He instead listens to Niffty, who buzzes as she cleans about gossip. Some owl demon she thinks Angel would like. He's too annoyed to listen properly. He's got an angry boner, to boot, stuck in Alastor's creepy voodoo bondage. Not the weirdest thing that's turned him on, but Al refuses to listen to him long enough for him to torment him about it. 

When everything has been settled, Al returns to him. "I've made some arrangements I hope will be more to your satisfaction." 

_Finally!_ "You're gonna help me take care of this hard-on I got?" 

Alastor makes a strong effort to keep his eyes from drifting downwards and inhales a sharp bout of laughter. For a moment, the charmer is at a loss for words, but after a brief moment to regather himself, and focus somewhere other than Angel, he says, "I discussed your situation with the girls. We'll be supplying you with something green to take the edge off your withal." 

"You mean _withdrawal_?"

" _I'm not finished_ \- And I'll also be taking you on an excursion. Haven't you grown weary of these crimson walls?"

Angel frowns. "I... guess?"

"If you cooperate, I may return your pocket device." He _may._

"Why are you being all pally with me? Did you _like_ being shot? Not that I'm judging, it can be-"

"Please, don't ruin this by talking about sex," Alastor chuckles awkwardly. "I am making an attempt to ensure this new companionship works, won't you give a fellow sinner a chance?"

It takes a hot minute, and a lot of thinking before Angel groans out a reluctant, " _Sure_."

Alastor's smile becomes confident again, and he gives Angel sweet release from the tentacles. Angel manages to catch himself on two feet, and examines the forming bruises on his arms. He wants nothing more than to go up to his bedroom, jerk off, and then hug Fat Nuggets. Hopefully, get high out of his mind. "So... we leaving now?"

"I'm afraid I need to prepare for the occasion myself, first." Alastor explains. "Perhaps you should dress for the occasion-" he examines Angel's attire. "Something _practical_ for the outdoors." Ew. "I'll be back before dusk." 

"When do I get my drugs?" Angel demands as he walks out the door. 

* * *

There's a knock. It's way too early for his date with Alastor, and way too late for lunch. Angel almost ignores it, choosing the soundless solace of his bedsheets instead. There's a Do Not Disturb sign on his door leftover from his earlier self-love session. Then he hears Charlie's voice - "Angel? Vaggie and I brought something we thought you might like." 

And he realises he'd be a fool to ignore them.

"Yeah, hol' up, girls. Needa get decent." 

"Ugh, just hurry up," says definitely-Vaggie.

A few moments later, he's wearing a sweater and pleated skirt. Knee-high socks and some cute leather boots, too, of course. Covers the bruises and gives him enough coverage he doesn't have to worry about underwear. Plenty of room to breathe. He washes his hands, splashes his face, and by the time all that's done he's feeling a little more awake. "Alright ladies, come on in." 

Angel opens the door himself, and the reaction from Fat Nuggets is instant. He squeals in approach of Charlie, who is immediately giving him all the love and attention in the world. Vaggie, instead, has a couple of rolled joints in a plastic bag and a resting case of bitchface. 

"Maybe you're not so bad after all," Angel murmurs, feeling genuinely eager as he hovers about. "I could kiss you if you kept this up."

"Ew, please don't," Vaggie leans away from him, "I seriously couldn't imagine anything worse." 

Charlie is watching them closely, still giving Fat Nuggets scratches behind his ear as she watches. There's a look on her face like she's just discovered the secret that'll get them to Heaven or something. Before Angel can ask, she gives it all away.

"Hey, Vaggie, I think someone should supervise, since it's medicinal use of drugs and all. _Soooo_ , I'm just gonna take Fat Nuggets for a walk so he doesn't inhale any of it. You'll have to stay behind, okay?" She grabs the harness and leash, and rushes out the door before even putting it on. Angel doesn't have the energy to call her back, but Vaggie looks at the closed door absolutely gobsmacked. 

"What just happened?"

"She wants ya to cut loose," Angel says. Generously, he lights the joint in his hand, and offers it to her first. "Here." 

Vaggie, at first, is horrified. "No way." He waves the joint a little, beckoning. "No. This is not happening." She stands, about to head in the direction of the door. 

"Come on, don't be such a buzzkill. Besides, I'm supposed to be in _rehab_ ," he stresses. The shock on her face turns to frustration, slowly edging into surrender. "It's not much of a treatment if there isn't someone to treat me, is there?"

" _Fine_." Vaggie snatches the joint, takes one deep breath. Angel can see the uptightness fade away with that one breath. Why would anybody bother meditating when you can chill out so easily with just a little natural assistance? The annoyance doesn't fade from her voice, however, as she thrusts it in Angel's direction. "You happy?"

"In a minute," Angel mumbles, before smoking some himself. He's a lot more generous with how much he inhales that first time, not stopping until he can feel the tingle of a buzz underneath the surface. He hums in delight. "Bit better." 

* * *

They say nothing for a while. Neither breaking the silence. No apologies. No compliments or questions or curiosities. It starts off awkward, but gets more comfortable as they burn through the grass. Angel's the one who finally breaks the silence. 

"This your first time stoked?"

"Since becoming a demon." 

"Fancy that, someone tempted more in the living world than the demon world." 

And then they start speaking a different nothing for much longer. The kind of easy nothing - where words flow, and everything they say is unimportant. Harmless details about life and afterlife: experiences with kinds of drugs, then drunken escapades, then awkward sex talk. At one point, Vaggie _giggles_ and she says "God, I can't believe we're talking about this. This has gotta be against one of the hotel rules."

Angel, thoughtful as ever, replies, "Didn't you make the rules?" and then she giggles a bit more and tells him he's right and that she's gonna create a new rule that forbids talking about the rules and he thinks it's hilarious but she says it's some movie reference, and they're... actually having fun. Him and Vaggie. 

He's starting to actually sorta like her company. Starts hoping they can do this everyday. Tells her he wants to do this more often and her high-ass says she'd like to as well. She probably won't when tomorrow actually comes around, but at least today turned out surprisingly okay. 

* * *

It comes to an unfortunate end with another knock on the door. This time, Angel has lost complete track of time. He wasn't expecting Alastor.

"Are you ready?" Alastor examines Angel's comfy skirt in a way that makes it clear that he doesn't believe Angel to be ready at all. The Radio Demon is dressed down slightly: his red pinstripes reduced to only the trousers tucked into leather boots. Instead of his coat he's wearing a well-fitted black button-up and rouge suspenders. If he'd come at any other time, Angel might have taken it properly as a hint to change, but the only fault his brain finds in that moment is his lack of underwear. 

"I'll put on some panties," he says, "Unless you don't want me to?"

"Please do," Alastor replies in a tired, tinny sigh.

Vaggie is off her ass, leaving the remaining joint in his top shelf. "I'm gonna leave," she says, steel returning to her tone. "Find Charlie and the pig. Have fun with the Radio Demon." 

"I know how to deal with him," Angel says, too high to really think any less. He's beat Alastor at his own game once already, afterall. Vaggie rolls her eyes as she leaves, and Angel is left wondering if they'll ever have a moment like that again. 

Probably not.

* * *

The chauffeur drops them by the Radio Tower. 

Not _at_ the Radio Tower, which is a tall metal structure with a cottage tacked-on. Closer to the Hellish forest on the fringes of Pentagram City. Angel's never been this far out, heck he's never even heard of what to expect. He hasn't touched the wilderness since the days of doing corpse-runs with his dad. Dumping unfamiliars outside of the city's territory. That association doesn't help him feel any more comfortable with it, especially as Alastor goes to the back of the car and pulls out a duffel bag. 

And a shotgun. 

Then the chauffeur drives away leaving Angel with fears that _oh no, this is the end_. He's going to have to fight the Radio Demon. The Radio Demon who shrugged off a bullet earlier this afternoon. Sure, it was just a glock. And it was a warning shot. But this is also someone who took down the Sir Edgelord in a click of his fingers. 

He's ready to pull out a pea-shooter when Alastor holds the gun sideways. Then, rather than aim it, he thrusts it into Angel's hands. It's good quality: pump action Winchester 66, polished, a pattern like red antlers painted along the stock. Not loaded yet. Alastor brings the bullets next, placing them in one of Angel's other hands. The box is unassuming, but the bullets inside have a subtle glow to them: Heavenly metal isn't cheap at all, especially not for bullets. "What the fuck is this for?"

"For shooting, of course," Alastor replies slyly, digging yet again through his duffel. 

"Well, obviously, but-" Angel doesn't have to finish. He catches sight of the next thing Alastor retrieves from the bag and it dawns on him what exactly is about to happen. "Oh, you psycho." The insult only adds fuel to the flame, Alastor's grin widening as the demon in his grasp tries desperately to wriggle from the ropes around him. "I thought you were trying to help me go _clean_."

"Yes, well, my curiousity got the better of me," Alastor confesses, placing the hostage on the ground. From his boot he pulls a hunting knife, slicing at the rope around the victim's legs. "The princess and her beau won't be made aware. You've hunted before, haven't you?"

Angel huffs, loading the gun. "In gang crime and turf wars, both sides usually have a gun." 

"Then this should be easy for you." 

The smaller demon is bug-like. A cockroach to be precise. No taller than Angel's legs; and dressed up in that Japanese crap that's so popular with the creeps nowadays. Faces that look like they're right out of a porno. As soon as he's released, he scurries away like a bug. But there's not a lot of places to go. Angel sighs. "So what's the deal with him?"

"I believe the modern term is 'pedo'," Alastor says simply, dusting off his hands as if dirtied. "He's been sending me fan letters for a while, but he's not worth devoting a show to. He wouldn't even make a good bisque." 

"Yeesh." Angel finally lines up his sight, aiming at the scampering bug. It's been a while since he's used something that needs such precision, and he finds himself biting his tongue as he pumps. Pulls the trigger.

_Bang._

He's not sure where he hits exactly, but he hits. The wrath of Heaven makes the blow more than enough to stun the demon. Alastor watches as he falls onto the ground, rolling around in pain, and Angel begins to reload the gun. 

Might as well put the fucker out of his misery now. Besides: no witnesses. If word gets out, then Charlie and Vaggie will be furious. 

Angel crosses the field to get closer to the fucker. He didn't even make it to the forest. As Angel approaches, he does move a bit, twitching and groaning. The damage is on his arm: "You goddamn wimp," Angel sighs, "You can't even take a graze? You coulda been outta here by now?"

But the insect only wimpers further. He begs forgiveness, and Angel holds his resentment as an armour. This creep has done a lot worse than most of the people Angel is used to doing in. Alastor manifests in front of him, grinning expectantly. 

Angel rolls his eyes. Aims. Shoots. 

* * *

Angel peers at the web of scars climbing Al's neck as the Radio Demon slits the throat of their fourth lower level demon. They've made it further into the woods in their twisted game. The shadows here all seem to have minds of their own, as if the very essence of all the lost souls is seeping into the forest. 

"You take all your dates hunting?" 

Alastor barks out a noise of laughter. "Had I known you were such a good marksman I'd have brought you earlier." 

Eyes rolling, Angel hands Al back the bullets. "Dunno if I'd say that. I wouldn't owe Valentino more than three years a street wage if I was that great."

As they leave the final kill to a criminal's burial, at the mercy of Hell's very nature, Angel explains the story of how he tried to get back into gangwork. How he wanted to prove himself to Valentino. 

It began with a buncha loan sharks - they were derogatory and underestimated him entirely. He cleaned up easily, but Valentino was disappointed. Insulted. Even if Angel ran the deal more than well, it wasn't enough. Alastor listens, humming at appropriate times, even playing appropriate sound effects. A few times after that, Angel kept it up. That was, until a few months ago. After witnessing Angel's success with smaller deals, Valentino finally gave him permission to run one of his larger ones. 

"You screwed up your first official assignment?" Alastor guesses. 

"Yes! An informant musta noticed me sneakin' in or somethin' because they had me ambushed." Angel drags one of his hands down his face, another leaning the shotgun over his shoulder. The other two hands gesticulate as he talks - "I mean, what an awful time to fuck up, right? Valentino was furious, he had to come save me like some goddamn damsel in distress, and the money we lost from it... God I was on my hands and knees trying to sort out a deal over it so he wouldn't throw my soul to the burning pits." Angel growls. "I'm sure you get the idea how bad it was, since you paid for it."

"Oh, Angel, you delightful gunsel," Alastor sighs, and a laugh festers in his throat. "You never thought it suspicious that the very moment Valentino was organising your dealings, they blew up in your face? Or that he knew exactly when to step in to save you?"

_Oh._

Alastor finds Angel's look of dawning horror even more to his amusement. So much so that he laughs through their entire walk back to civilisation.

* * *

An anger bubbles up beneath the surface, and Angel wants to shoot or fuck something right now. He doesn't care which one it is. He looks at Alastor, finally having calmed down as they reach the radio tower. Angel stands in front of Alastor, digging his claws into whatever parts he can get ahold of - neck, chest, bicep, waist. Alastor returns him with a curious, and at least somewhat uncomfortable look. 

"What do you want with Val?"

Alastor snaps his fingers, opening a portal in the fence right beside them. Swirling black and purple, blood-tinged edges like Hell itself is bleeding around the gaping hole he's torn in it. The gale of screams that lash out from within do nothing to distract Angel from his hold on Alastor. 

"His allyship." Alastor remarks. "Against a common foe." 

"If you mean Vox... he and Val are friends."

"Oh, _mon ami_ , this is Hell." Alastor hushes, prying Angel's fingers away from him until he's got two of Angel's arms in his grip. " _Friend_ is only a polite word for the ones we find most useful." Then, he pulls Angel through the portal with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angel doesn't get a chance to shoot or fuck anybody before the next chap.


	6. The High Points of Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little weed, a lotta radio, and finally some support. Did I mention excessive dated slang?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit 3200 hits!!! Thanks for giving this fic so much love guys. The comments are especially great, they give me life. I have mixed feelings about the final product of this but ahh hope you all like it <3

After their hunting trip, Angel pesters Alastor for his phone back for a solid hour. Alastor is persistent. None of Angel's excuses work. He complains about the socialisation ("If your friends truly care to see you then they can surely visit you!" woof), and tries to pressure the sterile asshole with laments about porn and how without any release he'll have to get his kicks somewhere ("So long as you keep five feet away from me I don't care!" are you kidding?) 

The only success he does get in a compromise is when he complains about the obvious lack of entertainment. The hotel doesn't supply television, so what's he got to do to pass the time without his phone? Of course there's Charlie's dumb list, but even the prigs in Heaven weren't boot-lickin' all the time, right? Sometimes people just wanna relax. This complaint does sway Alastor, but the solution is still ultimately disappointing. 

A plastic-cased little AM/FM tube radio: half speaker, half dials, completely vintage. 

It's a slap in the face. Alastor owns the radio. Nothing that plays on there is free of his influence. He bets the thing is bugged, too. Though try as he might, he can't find any sign that it is. Alastor's too old-fashioned to know a bug Angel couldn't notice, right? The radio came along with a letter; nothing of note other than the specific frequencies he'll find all of the channels at. All FM channels, in particular. Which not only makes Angel wonder why an AM-compatible radio was necessary, but also makes him wonder who convinced him to convert to FM, and how. In everything else, the bastard seems to be sticking to what was around during his life. Though maybe even Alastor can admit when technology is just blatantly better. 

Three channels. They all stick within their niche of music. Alastor's main channel is pure jazz, the sorta stuff that makes Angel remember long drives through the city with nicotine on the wind and quiet afternoons with his Mamma and his siblings. On Friday nights, he does a few hours of electro swing, which Angel makes a habit of tuning into. There's another that focuses a lot on rockabilly: sad, religious songs that manage to still be enough of a jam that Angel can't help but sing to them and smile. It's a genre he realises he only really heard with clients and other random fucks. Whatever it is, he's a little disappointed he was too busy during that era to pay attention. 

The one he spends the most time on he does perhaps a little out of spite for how it clearly seems the least _Alastor_ of all the stations. Poppy, swinging, fun. Some of the songs aren't even in fucking English. Not to the normal extent foreign songs aren't popular. An absurd amount of songs are in some kinda babble Angel doesn't understand. Whatever it is, it's his jam. When Alastor comes in and finds Angel dancing or singing along at the top of his lungs to these songs, he usually makes a swift exit. 

* * *

Overall, the new changes to Angel's recovery scheme do take a turn towards the better. The withdrawal still sucks. He's depressed and hopeless and his head hurts and he feels cold and hot at the same time. Sleeps through most of the day: long, four-hour naps, followed by moments of fatigue. Charlie and Vaggie explain the system to him at some point: edibles for days he needs to relax, inhalants for days he needs a boost. It's a system that keeps him holding on through the shakes that take over him between doses. Something to be eager for so he doesn't freak out and shoot someone (again). Despite that they made it out like Angel would have a choice, the choice is usually made for him: brownies. They want him to be out of trouble. Out of their hair. 

So when Vaggie arrives that morning with a joint rather than a brownie on the fifth day of this routine, Angel knows to expect something interesting. 

"What's the event?" he asks Vaggie, pulling out his lighter and poising himself on the bed. 

"Visitor," Vaggie remarks, dropping the toke in his eager hands. 

Angel rolls his eyes. "That ain't funny." 

"It's not a joke." Vaggie opens up his wardrobe, intentionally avoiding looking at him. "You better put on some clothes before she gets here."

 _She._ So not a suitor, then. 

"I can dress myself, mom," Angel retorts, standing only to push Vaggie towards the door. She leaves, giving him his space, and he gets dressed into something that's comfortable for the people around him rather than just himself. Shortly after he's buttoned up his shirt, he hears her voice. Like a ghost. A gorgeous, wonderful, _beautiful_ ghost of good fortune. That sweet, sweet voice he hasn't heard in eighty long, dreadful years.

"Angel? It's ya sister. It's me."

He pushes the door open quickly, clumsily. He doesn't quite believe it's her when she sees him. Last time he saw her she was human - somehow, he'd forgotten to consider she might become a demon just like him. So different to anything he could have expected, and yet, so familiar. Tall and pink and fluffy with too many limbs. Something about her feels so much older - just this sense about her, but she's still the same warm soul. 

Angel cries. (It's just the withdrawal.) 

He feels stupid and ashamed, standing there for twenty minutes, his sister holding him, rocking him. She's so much like their mother. It's not fair that she's here.

There's wetness on his shoulder like she might be crying, too, but she doesn't sob or whimper. Just holds him. 

"I'm sorry..." he says, when he can find the guts to talk. 

* * *

_She used to send letters to the Studio. They got bunched in with the rest of the creepy fanmail. Always marked with a wax spider seal._

_I was usually too high or ashamed to answer them._

* * *

The tears run out after a while, and Molly catches Angel up while he smokes. He's been told most of it before, apparently, but he doesn't remember much about the letters she sent him. He only remembers being happy she was alive before Valentino trashed them. Valentino only ever cared to hold onto the juiciest, most fucked up letters. There's some stuff he knows he never heard. It's rought to get through at first, but as the high settles in, he starts to feel comfortable enough to genuinely enjoy being with her again. Not just weep pathetically about how much he's missed her. (Because his headache wasn't bad enough already, goddamn withdrawal making him all miserable.)

Molly brought stuff with her - some fresh-baked cookies and a game of checkers. Which they start playing, even as they continue to catch up. Molly takes the game slow, but her victory is adding up swiftly. 

"So ya bumped gums with Al?" Angel asks, watching her nod in confirmation. "I knew that crumb was up to somethin' fishy. He's been slinking around out of sight since he brought me back 'ere." 

"He not half the big cheese he pretends to be," Molly says thoughtfully. "But he's cuter than your last flame."

"Ugh, Molly..." Angel drags his hand down his face. "What'd you tell'im?"

"Just the basics," Molly says, stretching her fingers in anticipation of her move. "All things I was sure couldn't hurt. You're great with a Tommy. Ain't no use talking to pops about ya. Give ya room to be yourself and you'll cooperate. In return, he made sure I could finally see my little brotha for the first time in _eighty years_." She finally seems finished thinking about her turn (a painfully long one, given she already has the advantage) and advances. "I tried not to rat anythin' he could use in a bad way." 

Angel, on the flip side, takes little time to think before moving. This may be the reason he's losing, but he's too messed up to really care about the game. "Unless he talks to pops anyways. Or tries to use pops to throw me off guard."

"Nothing you can't handle, _fratello_."

"I think he wants me wearin' iron," he watches another of his pieces be captured. "Took me on some hunting trip. He's gathering a mob. You involved in whatever he's plannin'?"

Molly thinks it over for a second. "Most likely, he was interested in my man power."

"Did he cut you any deals?"

"No," Molly assures. "Well except for the one I'm here for. Nothin' official. It's your turn, by the way." Angel realises she's right, looking down at the board. He's losing, that's clear. Two pieces left on the board, way too close together. Hanging out with his sister was supposed to be fun but she's really gonna ruin it by winning, huh? He moves the piece in the only way he knows how. 

And she wins in one move, with a way-too-happy grin on her face. Angel rolls his eyes, beginning to pack the pieces away in a strong show of _We're not doing that again_.

"So you really trying to go clean?"

"Eh?" Angel grimaces. Without the checkers, the only thing to distract himself with is the radio; playing jazz because it feels more like home that way. Even if the carpets are cheap and the bedsheets are rough and there's no fireplace. The city is noisy, so that hasn't changed. Angel gives up on sitting, sprawling himself comfortably along the floor. "Now that I'm a few days clean - well, almost - it's like 'hey, maybe this ain't a bad thing', but at the same time? I'd really rather be high-as-the-pentagram, spilling goofy nonsense all day, fuckin' glory holes and pluggin' lowlives. This place is swell an' all but I want some _adventure!_ Almost wanna go along with Smiles' plan just to see what comes of it."

He swings his legs, thoughtfully, "But I won't. Not yet, at least. _I don't know_. Plus, it's like. Vaggie - the princess' squeeze - she's actually been pretty cool lately. We're usually at each other's throats, but we had this buddy-buddy thing between us over a reefer and turns out she's actually kinda a chill gal once you get past all the knives and man-hate. I don't really wanna throw the princess a curve either; she's kinda like you were before Ma died. All naive and sensitive and shit. Ain't never had to make the hard choices. So I don't really want to go clean, but what's the alternative? Go back to _Val_?"

Sex, speed and security. All things Val could offer. But no stability. No support. Not even family visits. Not even supervised trips to fucked up hunting games. But sex. Speed. Security. All the drugs he wants. All the kinks he could indulge in. A place for Fat Nuggets to stay, but not one where he can go for walks. Not a place where Angel can see Molly. A place where he felt weak. Was too weak to even write letters or create memories. Where his body is a money machine. Where his pet pig is kept hostage, because he was the only thing worth going back to.

"What was it like there?" Molly asks, when it's clear Angel's thoughts have drifted off. 

"Hell," Angel says honestly. "But so is everywhere else in this godforsaken pit." He considers it seriously before adding, "I miss my job a lot. Maybe after this whole charade, he'll realise he needs me, and give me some more control over my hours." 

A long, quiet moment follows. Molly taking everything in, Angel realising how much he just said aloud. How much of it feels true. Whatever mania affected him fades into a hollow feeling in his chest, longing for the chaotic life he left at the studio. They spend the rest of the visit doing quizzes from magazines Molly brought. Out of mercy, she leaves them behind when she goes. 

* * *

He has another date with Alastor a week from the last one. 

This time, they don't bother with the chauffer, and simply step through a portal to the Radio Tower. The actual Radio Tower. Right near the door. Just like the limo ride of their last trip, Angel imagines the purpose of not manifesting inside the tower is dramatics. And just as he expected, Alastor, dressed in his usual coat, makes a huge show of opening the door for Angel, pointing the way with the tip of his microphone-pimp-cane. "You first," he says, the picture of a true gentleman. 

It's not as flash as Valentino's domain. A large, Southern barn made of ratty mulberry wood, a flat part of the roof holding the looming iron bars of the radio tower itself. The place looks, vaguely, as if it's ready to fall. As if too much weight on the second floor could knock it for good. Or maybe all it would take is a good storm. Angel's not all too sure how much protection the chipped, black shingles on the roof offer, but it can't be that much. 

"Nice place you got," he gestures at the house as he enters, "Definitely suits the whole creepy cannibal killer vibe you got going for ya." He then practically dances amongst the living room lined with demon skulls, dripping sarcasm every step of the way.

Alastor seems completely amused by this, closing the door behind him. Then, he looks back at Angel and his grin snaps especially wide. "Angel! Stay right there," he says urgently. 

Angel freezes, not even letting his heel touch the floor. He searches the space around him for something he'd missed; perhaps a thread out of place in the carpet. Then, turns back to Al, who is emitting record scratches like laughter. "Yes, I think that darling face of yours would make a wonderful mantelpiece." 

It takes a moment to realise he's been duped, and when he does all he lets out a dumb heave of laughter himself. "If you want, chef, I'd let you stuff me and hang me on a wall, sure. It'd be kinky." 

The dismay is immediate _._ " _Well!_ I suppose we'd better get down to business," Alastor announces, slamming his cane into the ground. The gesture creates a ripple around him, and a door opens up in one corner of the living room. Beyond, it stretches far back - a hallway that must be miles long. The same old wood of the rest of the place, but with a nice, crisp carpet covering the floorboards. 

When he steps through the door he's hit with a wave of nausea. The living room is replaced with more hallway when he turns to look back, and Alastor's form weaves itself out of shadows where the living room once was. "Shall we?" he says, offering an arm to Angel. Still dizzy, Angel doesn't reject the offer. 

Alastor's own shadow reaches towards the closest door, opening it wide and giving Angel a less-than-comforting grin. The business he's talking about is, unfortunately, not Angel's usual kind of business. And the room beyond the shadow's leer is no bedroom or playroom. It leads him through to what's barely a wardrobe. Just enough room to fit some ancient recording equipment, and two steel chairs. The business they have to attend to is none other than filming an advertisement.

Fucking peachy. 

"So, did you have a script?" Angel asks before putting on the headphones, sitting in the rigid metal chair. "Or am I just gonna have to bullshit everything."

"Oh, I have a few ideas," Alastor promises him, providing a thick booklet. "I simply _couldn't_ decide which one would be more entertaining."

* * *

Angel begins the recording with an overexaggerated, jovial allure. 

" _I've spent a_ lot _of nights in a_ lot _of different beds, but there's_ no _bed I love better than the one at the_ Happy Hotel _. At the Happy Hotel, demons are given the chance to_ cleanse themselves of all their sins _. For next to no cost! I've spent weeks at the Happy Hotel, and now I'm smiling like a Radio-_ Okay, fuck this. Seriously? You're that much of a narcissist you can't help wriggling your own business into _our_ ad? Also this shit is stale. You think anybody would actually listen to this?!"

* * *

_"Hey there."_

_"Oh goodness me, is that you, Porn Actor Angel Dust?"_

_"You bet."_

_"I'm afraid whatever you have to offer me, dear fellow, I must decline."_

_"I think you'll change your mind when you hear what I have to offer."_

_"I terribly doubt-"_

_"You, me, Happy Hotel at curfew. I've got a big, lonely bed, and no_ body _to warm it for me."_

"Angel, need I remind you that the point was to subvert their expectations by offering _redemptive_ services?"

"Oh, I know what the script says, Al." 

* * *

"Isn't this just Charlie's song? Why don't you use your _own_ , ya bastard?" 

* * *

An hour and twenty-seven scripts later, Alastor reaches a breaking point, clawing at his face in frustration for a moment before dropping his headset. He leaves the room with a hasty excuse about being hungry, and Angel is left tapping the soft, rotten wood of the desk. Angel also wants to get out. The room is dark, stuffy. The headset in his ears is giving off a constant feedback, and it's making his head ache worse than it already did. 

He's bored within moments, sifting through the papers to find one amongst them that maybe wasn't too terrible. Most of them are handwritten. Al's cursive. But a few have a more cutesy hand. Niffty, maybe? They're all just too jovial. No matter what Angel does, they're obviously forced. At least when he's doing crappy pornos, the important part's real. None of this is real. 

Angel turns to look at the door, seeing no sign that Alastor is on his way back. He takes a deep breath in, leans towards the microphone, and asks, mostly to himself, "Do you like being in Hell?"

Well, okay. Awkward start. Angel grimaces, but pushes himself to continue. "Really, think about it. This place is goddamn awful. Because we're all awful. Every single one of you listening to this is a sack of shit." 

Silence. He's talking to nobody. Just some dumb machine. This is less like the cheesy scenes where he greets mailmen or discovers kinky murderers and more like high-ranting to Molly. Except instead of Molly, it's an entire town full of bastards who treat each other like bullshit every chance they get. And that's the better of the bunch. 

Not to mention the cannibals. The killers. Freaks like Al. 

"The only person in this goddamn place who's trying to do any good is offering free rent. Free food. And maybe, if you can stop being a jackass for five minutes: a better way of life. You don't have to care about anybody but yourself. But maybe you should try caring about yourself for once. Give yourself a chance to stop being so _miserable_. Check into the Happy Hotel, fuckstains. And you might actually start to feel good about yourself for five minutes." 

The surge of vulnerability fades as soon as it appeared. "Shit, how do I delete that?"

* * *

When he first heard it, he thought Angel was talking to him. 

" _Do you like being in Hell?_ "

But it comes through a vacuum tube. Distorted and annoyed and curious. And then, as if nobody's listening, it continues. 

_Do you like being in Hell?_

Alastor pours himself a glass of red wine to go with his bourguignon. His stomach churns with emptiness still, so the rum acts fast. The speech is over before he's finished cooking; replaced by frantic attempts by Angel to take back the words. Alastor's hunger growls, but his smile is calmer than normal. He's not sure. After a long time cooking and drinking and thinking. He likes being powerful, he likes the chaos. But his disgust in the people around him burns stronger than ever. 

There are few around that make Hell, at least, bearable. And he's lucky enough that all of them happen to be gathered at the Happy Hotel. 

Angel, giving up on deleting the audio, resorts to reading the scripts. He gives them a much more honest try than he had before. Some of them are even usable. After injecting the tape with more nonsense than could fit in all six of his skinny arms, the food is finally ready to eat. 

He sets aside a bowl, then consumes the whole pot. 

And returns to Angel with a steaming dinner, and a glass of white rum. 


	7. Video Killed the Radio Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Angel's ad is met with roaring success.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N26_hRITlsU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong sexual themes, including assault/abuse and fetishisation. A fair bit of violence. Mentions of: Drugs. Self-injury. This is not a kind chapter. I'm sorry in advance.

Angel hates waking up in the heat of midday horny, angry and craving drugs. He hates it more than usual if only for the fact that satisfaction is not an option – not with the stranglehold Alastor has on him. It might just be another day of sticking in his room. Too depressed to think of anything better to do than to stare at the ceilng, but Fat Nuggets wants to go for a walk with Charlie, and Angel gives into the pig's protests, getting up so he can find the broad and get some peace and quiet. The day's glass of white rum is on his bedside rather than outside his door. He doesn't question it much. But as he makes his way out he begins to notice more oddities - the hotel is _lively_. Voices drift through the thin walls around him on either side as he makes his way to the elevator. As he goes down, there's even _more_. 

The noise is loudest when he reaches the lobby. Because in the entrance of the hotel are near a dozen demons all shapes and sizes, most of them he's never seen before. The usual gang is there, too: Husk, looking thoroughly unimpressed as Charlie enthusiastically takes over for him, Vaggie leaning against a wall, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Alastor stands amongst the middle of it all; grin wide with pride. A real wolf in sheep's clothing, sizing up the flock. 

Okay, he's _got_ to question it.

"Uh, what happened?" Angel asks Vaggie, taking up the empty wall beside her. 

"The radio thing actually worked," she says, sounding a little peeved about it. 

He's not sure whether he's more surprised it worked or more surprised she's somehow managed to turn this into something to complain about. "Isn't that a good thing? Your little project's finally getting some customers?"

"It's just frustrating. Charlie and I have been working our butts off to get attention for the hotel, but all it took you was a forty second recording." 

Angel shrugs disheartedly, wondering a touch anxiously which ad Al went with. He scans the concierge, finding the row of keys severely diminished. "Sooo... how many new check-ins we got?"

"Nineteen so far," Vaggie says, sounding a little less annoyed this time. "That's almost enough to make us _look_ like a successful business. A lot of them seem like jackasses, though. Half of them think it's conversion therapy. The other half are sex creeps."

"Niffty ain't gonna be overwhelmed by the work?"

"Dunno," Vaggie says. "Don't really care." 

They watch the chaos for a while longer. Some familiar faces - people Angel's seen on the streets. He can't really place names to any of them. Isn't sure he's had sex with any of them. 

Charlie is enthralled by the insurge. When she notices Angel, she waves at him excitedly, mouthing a rather obvious _Thank You_. With a roll of his eyes, he peels himself from the wall, ready to disappear into his room once again until the noise dies down. He doesn't make it even half-way down the hall before realising he's being followed. Angel spins, ready to throw hands with one of their new sex creeps, only to find a set of smug yellow choppers. 

Alastor is excited. There's a certain swing to the music that plays as he approaches, twirling his cane. He looks like he's gonna burst into song, but he stops at a respectable five feet. "Now _there's_ the star of the hour," he says in a deep voice, head tilted. "I'd never thought you one to escape the spotlight." 

"Oh, I'd _love_ to stay around for all the noise. _Really_ helps my headache and all-around withdrawal symptoms. But I'm afraid if I don't get back to Fat Nuggets soon he'll leave some fat nuggets on the carpet, capiche?"

Loud, boisterous laughter. "Angel you are a _real_ Piece of Work," he says, lurching forward to pat Angel's cheek. He leans so close that Angel can smell the blood on his breath - "Your advertisement was a smashing success," he says lowly, and pulls Angel against him to stare proudly, cheek-to-cheek, at their hotel full of Happy guests. In a low voice, he adds, "Perhaps we should do more shows together?" A chill rushes through Angel, making his furs bristle. His thoughts run south: their favourite direction. 

Angel bites his lip. "If I didn't know any better Al, I'd say you're into me?"

Alastor scoffs at the notion. "Well it's a good thing you do know better, then, isn't it, saleau?" Then, gliding his hand over the display of demonic figures before them, "Just look at them Angel. You inspired them, filled them with _hope_! And now? They're going to realise just how truly worthless they are." 

"If that's what gets your rocks off, babe. That's why I'm here ain't it?"

"You're useful for more than you seem, my dear."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

* * *

While the hotel thrives for the first time since it's opening, one demon observes the report from a penthouse high above Pentagram City. The penthouse is _imaculate_ ; each corner detailed with security cameras, lit by a dozen gleaming screens, packed edge-to-edge all along the walls like it's 1984: some show different parts of the skyscraper: the closet where Velvet always sneaks off to with the receptionist, or the entry where a fresh demon sneaks in during the receptionist's absence, trying to find some sort of shelter in the Hell he's dropped into, only to become another cog in the corporate machine of mass media.

Other screens show off any of the over-200 channels broadcasting from the tower. 666 News: they mock the enthusiasm of the hotel's new recipients. He had only caught it halfway through, _"-Angel Dust. Guess he really_ did _go clean, huh Katie?"_

 _"Oh, who knows Tom? There's no telling what they bribed that slut with. No way they got him to say all that_ sober _. Ohohoho!"_

But now he's caught up, the information comes to him easily enough. The realm of technology moves at a pace faster than Hell's natural constraints. _"Do you like being in Hell?"_ and the corny bullshit the temptress spouts. It's a guilt trip - not great television. No. Television needs to be entertaining. It needs to be thrilling, _exciting!ag_ Television is drugs, and sex and violence. It's everything a sinner could want or crave. Because of that, radio could never compare. It can't excite you like television can. Can't show you the things a television can. Incomplete. Obsolete.

The overlord selects one file amongst many; filmed weeks ago, edited and touched up in the days since. It's been ready to publish for a few days now. Just waiting for the right time. 

He calls his friends. Velvet. Valentino. They all agree it's time to release the video.

* * *

The wasp only checked in just that morning; sex addiction, it says on the sign-in sheet. Allowed to bring enough things with him to keep comfortable. He kept his computer, of course. Set it up on the desk in his room. Watching porn non-stop for the three hours he's been there.

He can't help it. He wants it so bad. He dreams of having the chance to do it himself one day. Remembers that time he took some rib to a party, but the cocktail killed her before he got the chance.

A video appears in his recommended. Recent. Forty minutes long. Uploaded just today.

_NOT ALL ANGELS BELONG IN HEAVEN._

* * *

Manipulating the algorithm was hardly necessary, but Velvet assured him it would cause the most chaos that way. Every single degenerate would see the thumbnail, see the title. Most of them would think nothing of how long it took to create such a video. All they would see is Angel headlining twice in one day. A model of redemption and change one moment, and the cum dumpster he's always been the next. Taking pigeon cock like a perfect little bitch. Wearing those fluffy pink wings on his back, cock dripping into the clouds beneath him, easing himself along with his own hands. The horribly corny acting, the _"So this is Heaven, huh?"_

People everywhere in Hell turn on their TVs, or fire up their PCs, and they find the closest Hell has to an Angel. His legs, spread. Pussy dripping, cock erect, anus stretched, bird-like claws scraping through the fluff of his chest. Within moments the story has reached the parts of Hell that don't offer pornography. 666 News eats it right up. Talk shows begin to joke about the situation. Clips are shown of Angel's face, analyses of how blatantly high he is echoed throughout videos meant to exploit tragedies for clicks. 

People demand statements from the hotel, receiving radio silence in return. 

* * *

"I'm going to wake him up," Vaggie declares. 

"No," Charlie says, grabbing her arms to hold her in place. "Vaggie, don't. The last thing we need to do is make things worse."

" _Worse!?_ How can it get _worse_?" her teeth gnash, and without Angel to chew out, she turns her scowl on Alastor instead. He sits with one leg crossed over the other in one of the spinning cushions Charlie's office provides. They really are remarkably mobile. Perfect for somebody completely reevaluating what had originally seemed a flawless approach to many of his issues at once. " _When_ did this happen? _You_ were supposed to be keeping _an eye_ on him!" 

Alastor clasps his hands in front of his nose, eyes closed in thought. "I'm no expert on the adult film industry," Alastor remarks, "But are we so sure that this video of interest was filmed sometime recently? It seems more likely that it was filmed quite a while ago. He hasn't left the hotel unsurpervised in weeks." 

"Exactly," agrees Charlie. "Vaggie, I get it. I'm not happy about it either, but... this is _still_ a win. We only lost about four of our new residents. And who's to say? Maybe they'll come right back!" 

Both Vaggie and Alastor look at Charlie with little to express in support. Alastor's smile is blank, passive. Vaggie scowls, but as the smile on Charlie's face begins to fade, guilt overtakes her and she grabs Charlie's hand. "You've got a point, hon," she agrees. "We can recover from this. But we can't act as if nothing happened. Angel's gonna find out sooner or later what happened. And if we don't do something about it, well. He might just keep doing it." 

Alastor swings himself in a circle, humming thoughtfully. "Well, I could always take Angel back to the station? Then we can settle the truth of this mystery once and for all. Hardly any use dilly-dallying while the rumours grow worse." 

Unwilling to trust him, Vaggie looks to Charlie. "What do you think?"

"I think it's going to take a bit more than a radio show to clean up this mess," Charlie sighs. "But we've gotta start somewhere, Vaggie." 

"Excellent!" Alastor jumps to his feet, watching Vaggie closely as he strolls towards the office door. "I suppose I'd better go wake the sleeping beauty so we can all discuss this like adults." 

* * *

If nobody knows to listen, then how can he be sure that they will listen? 

Alastor talks animatedly into his microphone as he makes his way to Angel's room. The evening show, he says, which is at nine every Saturday. All will be explained. The drama, for the inconvenience it caused the hotel, could be fantastic for his show. He's sweetening the deal, decorating hints at more details on how the hotel works, encouraging the sending of questions, the making of phone calls.

Then with a shriek of static he feels as the wards of Angel's room are disregarded.

* * *

Angel still can't believe, of all the skits they did, Alastor chose _that one_. It was an accident, really. He was just in an over-shary mood that day from his talk with Molly. It wasn't meant to be public knowledge he felt that way. 

He thought about it as he first heard that tired voice of his asking _"Do you like being in Hell?"_ (no). He thought about it as he drifted off to the delicate chimes of a Jazz band he got to see live back when the world seemed simple. And waking from his nap to a series of knocks on the door, he thinks about it again, a little dazed about the whole thing. Of all the things that people have seen or heard from him, it's amazing he has any shame left at all. But to be so vulnerable in a place like this is just asking for trouble. 

Much too tired to dress properly, Angel ties his robe snugly around his waist, top-fluff spilling over. Then he opens the door. 

To a demon he's never met before. 

Which shouldn't be surprising, given he suddenly has twenty-or-so more flatmates. Angel leans on the doorframe, looking down at the runt of a thing. He's maybe about Charlie's size. Chubby. Some sort of wasp demon or something. Angel really isn't too sure. "What do you want?" he asks.

"I-" the demon stutters, "You're Angel Dust?"

"Uh, yeah. So?"

"Do you still do it?"

"Do what?"

"Prostitution?"

And Angel has to think - does he? The answer, of course, is _Who's going to stop him?_ "I ain't cheap." 

"Fifteen dollars?"

"Fift- You've gotta be shitting me? That's 'not cheap' to you?"

"Twenty?"

 _Oh my god_ , Angel thinks. _He's completely serious._

The guy's yellow face and those beady insect eyes crawl along Angel's body. Angel brings his hand to cover his face. After a moment to calm himself, and feeling distinctly like this is karma for tormenting Alastor for weeks, he starts over. "Okay," Angel says lowly, "Maybe you're just _stupid_." He waves a hand down the side of his robe, showing off his curves - "You want all this? It's two-fifty." Then, when the guy looks a little too relieved, "Two _hundred_ and fifty. Dollars." And finally, the other demon looks scandalised as he realises the extent to Angel's services.

"I don't have that sort of money."

"Well tough love, babe." Angel tries to shut the door, but the chode won't stop bugging him; wedges his foot in. "Come on, don't be a little _prick_ -" the smaller demon pushes the door back with surprising force, throwing Angel off balance for a moment. Just a moment.

It's all downhill from there. 

Fat Nuggets, recognising a commotion, runs for cover under the bed. "But- I saw your new video," He says. Angel, for a moment, isn't sure what he means. So much bullshit happened the last, slow, two weeks, that he forgot the more erotic details. His time at the studio is a far off blur, but he's not a moron. He knows what happens when he's with Valentino. Knows what it takes to get Val riled up. When it hits him, it hits him hard. He remembers it in sounds and smells and tastes - the tickle of fake wings, the feeling of being filled. He can't remember what he said, but he knows he would take it back if he could. Knows if it hit him this hard it'll hit Charlie worse. He wonders if she knows already - is she crying about it? 

It unsettles him long enough for the sneaky little wasp demon to push the door back open. " _Everyone's_ seen it." He reasons, snapping Angel back to the much more concerning present. "Why charge people so much for something they can see just as easily for free?"

"Then why don't you just stick to watching it then if it's so cheap and easy?" Angel growls. "Fuck off!"

The little creep, failing to take a hint yet again, steps over the threshold of the door. Angel notices for the first time, a strange symbol that beams with red as the other demon reaches for the zipper of his pants. "Come on, it'll be fun," he promises, pulling out his stinger. 

Angel has something to pull himself. He manifests his favourite tommy gun and he's stuck on autopilot, shooting without thinking. He doesn't let go of the trigger until after a few seconds of bug-spraying, only stopping when the other demon drops like a bloody slice of swiss cheese. The walls are thankfully strong - keeping the carnage to Angel's room alone. Tearing up the wallpaper and covering it in splashes of red. There's not a sound left from the pest. He's on the floor writhing like a bag of rats, twitching and oozing red all over the hotel's lovely carpet, but soundless. Angel's hand shakes as he presses the button to call room service, coaxes Fat Nuggets out of his hiding space, and cuddles the startled piggy on his bed, unable to tear his eyes from the other demon. If anybody asks him, he'll say he's fine. That he just doesn't want to clean the mess. That it spooked his pig, that's all. 

This sort of shit is par for the course in Angel's line of work. Especially when all your clients are in Hell for a good reason. He's killed bastards who asked for more than he could give before. He's given into them before. It's all he can do to breathe in a calmly manner. He needs some fuckin' weed. 

Alastor gets there before room service does, but Niffty is only a dozen tiny-steps away. "What a mess," she chirps, hopping around the body, horrified less by the slaughter and more by the work ahead of her. She sucks in a deep breath, moving from the floor to the mess on the wall - pulling up a chair and beginning to wash away the ruined paper. Alastor gives the body a keen examination, not missing the phallic appendage left exposed. The Radio Demon glances at Angel, examines the door, then dips his finger into one of the bullet holes. Sniffs it. His grin twitches. Then, he turns his attention to Niffty. 

"Have Husk take this fellow to our shop to make a show of him," he says cordially. "And tell Charlie and Vaggie that one of the residents attacked Angel, and they will be checked out." So the prude figured it out fast, Angel realises, embarrassed. He wonders if that's what the symbol on his door was: Alastor spying on him. He scratches Fat Nuggets in a way that's a little more comforting for them both, and the piglet lets out a delighted squonk. Niffty runs off to her errands, leaving Angel alone with Alastor. For a moment, neither says anything. Alastor stares at the closed door rather than at Angel, and he stands uncomfortably still, rumbling with static. No music this time. 

He's probably ashamed of Angel: not even looking his way. 

But after a few moments, he manages enough pity to turn to face Angel. Those red, luminous eyes take in Angel properly for a moment. He's got a smile that leans on the side of gentle, rather than amused or showy. "That insect won't be pestering you again," he assures Angel. "Do you suppose it was related to the video released earlier today?"

Angel, to his credit, does not explode at that. This self control has nothing to do with learned helplessness. "I don't like what you're insinuating there, Al."

"And what is that?"

"That that bastard did that because he saw porn of me. That if- If I weren't a porn star, this would'n'a happen. You gonna blame me for it, asshole?"

There's a quirk to his lips as he steps over the bulleted body, and sits cautiously on Angel's bed (as if it may be dirty). "Well," he says thoughtfully, dropping the filters, "I was coming here to talk to you about that before you sullied the carpets. So, perhaps, I decided they may be related. It does not mean that you had any fault in this matter, mon ami. In fact, I think you handled it rather well." Angel chuffs, waving Al's fake friendship away, hating how it makes him feel a little better anyway. "We've lost a few more guests than that over the video." 

"And I suppose _that one_ 's my fault?" Angel guesses. 

"A difficult question to answer," Alastor replies. Not the evasion Angel was hoping for. "This certainly wouldn't have happened if not for the video- though I admit you don't seem to have had much control over it, either." This doesn't assure Angel in the slightest. His chest glows warm with shame. "I need to know if there'll be more videos like this, Angel." 

"No, _fuck_. I mean, I don't think so?" Angel thinks back to that day. They don't usually film two videos a day. Maybe they had something else on backup? Something from before he was even at the hotel? "That's the last one. I mean, they have other videos, sure. But nothing that was filmed this year... Let alone other shit makin' fun of the hotel. It should just be that one."

Alastor seems satisfied with the answer, nodding sagely. "Well, then, all that's left to do is to clear up the facts. This video, of course, was filmed well before you committed to your recovery?"

"I... _yeah_."

"We'll have to talk to the ladies of the hotel," Alastor declares. "And you'll be appearing on radio with me again to clear things up. Deal?"

Angel glares at Alastor's inviting hand. "No deal... but sure."

* * *

Husk arrives to hoist the body away. He doesn't hide his disgust at the sight; the stinger still poking from between the zippers, the blood everywhere. He shouts a string of curses at Alastor for making him the one to carry the body, and Alastor's teeth bare in feral delight. Niffty brings a large enough sheet of tarpaulin to keep them from tracking blood everywhere, and save Husk the possibility of touching something he'd rather not. Niffty is still tearing wallpaper off the wall when Vaggie and Charlie catch up after trying hard to assure the other guests everyone is safe (and failing).

Charlie looks like she's barely recovered from some sort of panic attack. Vaggie looks straight-up-pissed. 

Angel would have liked to apologise, but Vaggie raises a hand in his direction and fury takes over the guilt. "I don't need a lecture," he tells Vaggie, before she can even begin to tell him why exactly running off to a porn studio while he was still in their care was an obviously awful idea. He knows exactly why it was a shitty move. She tells him anyway - pins his robe to the wall with a dagger. He doesn't really remeber most of it, just a string of words. Things like Irresponsible, things like Reputation, things like: 

_"Do you know how fucked up it is to see your friend mocking everything you're trying to do for him during sex? Do you have ANY IDEA-"_

Somehow, being called her friend hurts the most. 

When Vaggie storms off, Charlie hugs him. He doesn't know what to do about the fact she's making his robe wet with her tears, or that her head's leaned against more fluff than robe. He awkwardly pets her shoulders as she asks him if he's okay and he has no idea how to answer her. "Are you okay?" he asks instead. She doesn't know how to answer either. 

He's pretty sure they _both_ feel like shit, and he's certain that it's all his fault. 

* * *

"D'you watchit?" Angel asks Husk, hours later when the worst of the mess has been cleaned. He's halfway through cashing in all his good boy tokens (which are really just casino tokens with smiley face stickers on them), dragging his finger along the rim of his champagne glass. 

"I'm too old for that shit," Husk sighs. 

"Y're no' much older 'an me," Angel retorts, rolling his eyes. He takes a sip, looking around at the lobby. Dead, now. Not a person in sight. "'Ow many people jumped ship?" he asks, looking at the wall of keys. 

"Twelve, for now," comes Husk's gutteral reply. "You really fucked it up this time."

Angel sags along the bar. "Hah, hah. Y'know, I r'ly don' appreshiate all this slut-shamin'. All I want's some dick, ain' that normal?"

As they're talking, yet another comes down the hotel hallway. He throws his keys; they land in Angel's drink with a splash, and sink to the bottom. He shares a whole rainbow of insults on his way, littering slurs amongst his ravings. Angel feels a surge of anger telling him to follow, _fuck him up_. But the wards on the door glow as the man disappears, and Angel's reminded once again of his fool's gold cage. 

"Thirteen," Husk says, topping him up. Angel didn't ask, or even pay for this one. "Now there's a number to worry about." 

* * *

His plans for the night were to masturbate until he bleeds. Those plans are cut short when Alastor arrives at his door with a freshly rolled joint. It's sealed in a little plastic bag, and he holds it at arm's length like it's poison, and it's kinda fucking hilarious, but definitely a total cockblock. "Wha' the fuck's it this time?" Angel asks. 

"I thought it was obvious," Alastor answers, "We need to set the record straight about your recent show. Our interview begins at nine. So you'd better be ready by eight so we can go over what we're going to say." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations. You just read the chapter I took an actual break after writing! The next chapter pretty much needs to be rewritten, and possibly broken into two because this chapter had sapped a lot out of me at the time. So there's a possibility I'll take a bit longer to upload that one. It won't take more than two weeks, though.


	8. Angel Spills His Guts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> & Alastor gets what he needs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emetophobia warning, some discussion/heavy implications of abuse. Violence/mutilation - implied?
> 
> Did you know that vespas are named for the Italian word for wasp?

It's not quite the night Angel had envisioned. 

Alastor teleports them to the Radio Tower - they land in the living room this time, and Angel slumps, barely catching himself on one of the heads nailed into the wall. Alastor seems unimpressed, but roughly pulls him upright with a few annoyed comments about Angel's choice to get so drunk in the first place. While Angel feels pretty much like he's swallowed a bunch of cockroaches that are now trying to crawl back up, Alastor fills the empty hallway with talks of small ideas. Like the kinds of wallpaper they can give Angel now that his walls are tattered and bare, or the need for 'One of those swirling chairs' in his recording room. 

Which is just as uncomfortable as the last time Angel was there. 

Only now they're recording _live_. No pressure or anything. 

There's small mercies. Alastor brews him an extra strong coffee before they start, and he runs Angel through some of the more important rules for the live show. 

No swearing. Speak clearly. Discuss the hotel in a positive light only. 

"Make sure to smile, my dear. People can hear the difference, you know?" 

The alcohol and Alastor's infectious delight does make it a bit easier to fake a smile, but the weariness bears down on Angel nonetheless. They go over the details of the public spectacle one more time, Alastor looking for any inconsistencies in the story. There are none. Angel's telling the truth. 

People don't phone in, not exactly. Alastor's eyes drop their red glow, instead screeching with black and grey static. He seems to do this, relaying questions over the noise. 

Angel realises he's spying on their listeners. 

They address the violence at the hotel - word spread quickly with all those turning their backs on the project. Angel can feel his control slipping away. Alastor keeps asking him to repeat stuff, he's slurring too much, Alastor touches his cheek in a way that means his smile is too weak. They're reaching the end of the segment. Alastor's eyes turn to normal as the questions run dry. He finishes the broadcast by announcing the next song, that there will be more to come later that night, and then all the machines turn off. 

Alastor pulls off his headset, and Angel follows suit. "Are you feeling well, Angel?" Alastor asks. "You seem paler, somehow." 

"Oh, I'm great," Angel retorts with a chuckle. "Nothin' quite like near gettin' raped by a goddamn _vespa_ to get you riled up for y'own pity party. Feels right good." 

Alastor hums evasively. "We'd best get you home, _mon ami_." 

"Rather not," Angel hugs his chest. "'Ey, you got plenny rooms here - couldn't I?"

"No."

Angel blinks. "C'mon, sure there's somewhere." 

"You're not staying the night," Alastor pulls Angel from the chair, manhandling him once again. It's weird how one moment Alastor can treat him like a disease, but the next his hands are all over him. 

Maybe it isn't that weird. 

Angel should be used to it by now actually.

They're in the hallway and Alastor is summoning his cane, about to tear a hole in the fabric of Hell, when Angel keels over. 

He throws up all over Alastor's floor. It's a feral, watery blend of rum and champagne and his own venom. Someone's semen, too, but that might just be his imagination (shit when was the last time he got to suck dick?). Alastor's eyes snap wide at the sight, and Angel reaches for his legs to hold onto as his body heaves. It hurts deep when Alastor walks away, but he's back in a few moments with a dirty-looking cooking pot. He puts it between Angel's mouth and the floor. It's big enough for Angel to lean against as everything he has in his stomach vacates.

He wonders where Alastor is, after a few moments. Raises his head to look for him, but a hand presses into his hair and pushes him back down. So, Alastor is still there.

Eerily silent. Watching. He doesn't remove his hand from Angel's hair. 

After several minutes, Angel wipes his lips. "Righ'," he mumbles, trying to sit up. "'M done."

Alastor sighs. "Then we should take you home."

"N'fuck'n way. Your portals suck!" 

To his credit, that brings a laugh from the Radio Demon. "I'm not keeping you here to mess up my carpets," he informs Angel, who lets out a long, keening noise in reply. Just a sound of pure, pathetic need. Alastor's eyes glow vibrant, little voodoo symbols popping up in the air around him. 

"Won' throw up more," Angel promises, meaning it, leaning back against one of the many mysterious doors. His stomach is empty. Best he can manage is an awkward retching sound. 

"Of course not," Alastor says, sounding not at all convinced. He offers Angel a handkerchief, which Angel immediately uses to wipe his lips clean. He looks up at Alastor with sad eyes, and sees something snap in the Radio Demon's expression.

"Please..." he begs.

"No, Angel. Absolutely not." And as Angel finally loses it, holding onto tears so they well up in his eyes - "Ohono, Angel. No. Those crocodile tears won't work on me, _mon ami_. You are the most useless soul I've ever contracted, I'm _not_ letting you have your own room." 

Ouch. 

"Al..." Angel says thoughtfully, sniffling. His voice sounds small, it's intentionally childish in intonation. Alastor notices this, stiffening. "I'm finally ready to tell you all about daddy."

Static hisses in Angel's ears as Alastor stares at him. When he finally collects his thoughts to speak, it's in a seething voice - "I don't think I want to know anymore," he replies.

"Then when else willya gemme t' rat? I'm all liqua'd up. All upset, an' vulnerable."

He's literally asking to be taken advantage of. 

Alastor stares at him for a long time, realising exactly that.

He lets Angel stay. 

* * *

It's a rough walk to the end of the hallway, Angel wants nothing more than to crash right away. Alastor has to grip his shoulder as they walk, and he drags the basics of Valentino out of Angel's lips as they make their way. Though try as Alastor might, Angel doesn't have much more than a list of kinks that he then has to explain to Alastor, all of which makes the trip quite a bit more entertaining as Alastor seems progressively disturbed. 

When he's sober, he'll realise that Alastor only walked from one end of the hall to another to force Angel into speaking. He'll write it in his journal. 

"We shud cuck him," Angel suggests, gilggling at the prospect: a long list in a line of flirts and ideas that Alastor is going to discard. "Val loves an exclusive show y'know? Loves to see me wit o'er men." 

"You and I have very different ideas of dominating an opponent, Angel," Alastor huffs. 

"So?"

"No, we will not be doing that. Must you strategise with your extremities?"

"Easier this way since the doc drilled m' brain," Angel cackles, mimicking the motion with one of his hands. "But f'real, Al. Best way to get to Val is through 'is dick. You think I think with my cock? That guy's literally a cock-roach!" Alastor chuckles, "Heh, thought y'd like that. But he's... ah.... He likes t'watch. Likes t'fuck somethin' dirty. Likes t'make other people watch. Why'd y' think he likes me so muh?" 

"That does provide a challenge," Alastor confesses. "It's certainly far out of my usual domain." He thinks for a long time. "Would spying excite him?"

"Spy'n? I think so. Most the time people at the studio're paid actors. Ain't no worries 'bout spyin'. Everyone knows they're bein' watched. Likes a fight, sure he'd like t' spy. Why?" 

"Vox has more eyes than can fit on his own screen alone. He sees as much violence and profanity as he desires. If I were to offer that to Valentino when I take over Vox's domain, that might be enough for him to agree. So long as I can prove myself a worthy ally... We'll need something else, Angel. Something we can offer that heart-eyed domion as proof of our competence." 

Angel feels distincly uncomfortable. "You aren't gonna hand me back for a refund, are you?"

"Of course not, mon ami," Alastor says, a touch of offense in the tenseness of his smile. "No, I don't treat those with bedrooms in my house like objects. It's a matter of proper manners." They've finally reached the end of the hall. Alastor stops in front of the door in the middle and turns to the dusty, oaky door to its right. "Speaking of bedrooms: it will be here," Alastor says reluctantly. "Though it won't be too elegant. You can work out the accessories later." 

He summons his cane, and the room shifts around them: it doesn't seem to be moving, but Angel feels a keen sense of vertigo. He leans against the walls for support, but they rumble beneath his fingers, and he takes to standing as straight as he can relying on only his backward-shaped and liquor-loose legs. Green light floods the hall, shadows skittering away. Angel hears noises from the rooms around him, sees Alastor's claw dig into his palm until it bleeds. Not a small amount - it streams onto the floor, a delicate trickle that forms a puddle and slides beneath the door to feed some unknown horror bigger than the both of them combined. The door in front of them glows, and a familiar symbol carves it's spot on the front. Alastor taps the ground with his cane, and abruptly, the magic fades. 

Where the symbol had been on the door becomes almost invisible. Although now that Angel knows it's there, he can make out the faint scratches against the wood. The door is cleaner than most of the others in the house, fresher. As if it's a whole new room now. The door before that was covered in wear is gone.

Angel has a million questions to ask. He can't figure out where to start. He watches Alastor rub the spot on his hand; notices that the claw pierced all the way through to the other side. The wound is already closing, but Alastor's own flesh is caught beneath his nails as he reaches for a handkerchief he forgot he gave away earlier that night and finds it gone. He recovers with a smile, and Angel watches as he takes to licking the gore instead. Feels a stir at the image he's been in Hell too long to be ashamed of. 

"So..." Angel begins, taking in the Radio Demon as he fixes his magic-tousled hair. "Whaszup with the voodoo..... _things_?"

Alastor blinks. 

"'The voodoo things?'" he quotes. 

"Yah."

No answer. 

"You gonna answer me'r not? The rum's apart of it right?" Angel pokes Alastor's chest forcefully. The Radio Demon doesn't flinch from him, turning those evil, glowing eyes up like any man eyes up a conquest. "Wha's the deal?"

Alastor gently bats Angel's hand from him with the tip of his cane. "My dear, it's for your protection. No different from when your mother put a cross on your wall, I imagine." 

"Yeah well my ma ain't here, ya bastard," Angel pushes back, a surge of annoyance taking over. He corners Alastor against the end of the hallway as well as he can, and he feels a sick sense of satisfaction when Alastor does seem just a bit surprised by it. "And crosses burn. Try 'gain." 

"The smaller gods are more forgivin'," Alastor says simply, then in a voice that sounds foreign on him, like it's come from somewhere deep in Alastor's memory. "The lwa don't discriminate, dear. Dey'll care fer you in all your sins." 

"Oh," he says, not sure what else _to_ say. "I thought it was like, zombies an' shit." 

"You'd do best not to make broad assumptions about religion, _mon ami_ , now we've got that out de way, let go of me _now_ or watch the slap."

"Watch th-?" Alastor gives Angel a sharp poke in the stomach with the bottom of his cane. It hits his gut, and if he had anything more he probably would have thrown up, but he just crumples, falling back on his ass. Alastor rolls his eyes, and helps Angel back up again. Angel groans. "You asshole," he manages as Alastor puts his arm around his shoulder, and drags Angel into his bedroom.

It's clean. Basic. Not unlike his hotel room when he first moved in. The linens are frail, purple, but soft. There's a window that, impossibly, shows a view of the city from high up above it - certainly not in one of the two stories of Al's barn. He has a million more questions, but they all fail to come out right. "I told you a tidbit about myself, I suppose it's only fair you tell me somethin' now," Alastor reasons, adjusting Angel on the bed. 

He reaches for the bedside table - cherry oak, fancy - and pulls up a cup Angel is positive hadn't been there before. Water. Just water.

Angel isn't quite sure he understands the deal with the white rum. Still doesn't know what the symbol on the door means exactly. But he supposes it might just be the regular level of religious weirdness. Angel hasn't done communion since coming to Hell - wonders whether that pushed God's favour against him. Not everyone's lucky enough to have accepting gods, he supposes, drinking the water, imagining it as the watered down wine he drank for the first time when he was eight. Remembering how hopeful he was before he realised God had cursed him with an impossible body and a poisoned mind; before he got trapped forever in eternal suffering. 

Angel lies on the bed, and Alastor sits in the space behind him. He reads off Angel's contract like some sort of twisted bedtime story. The terms and conditions of Angel's soul written in red ink, spoken through a vacuum tube in an overly-professional voice. It's strange to be declared on paper like property. Alastor asks Angel questions throughout; pointing out things Angel had hardly considered. The lack of income for one: he had more freedom working the streets than he ever did under Valentino's control. Controlling his own money, even if most of it went to the same shit: he'd stockpiled sex toys, drugs, bought himself a flipphone. All things he doesn't have now. Alastor is silent when Angel explains that in an accusatory tone, and the Radio Demon steers the conversation expertly away from the subject. 

Back to a candid reading of the contract, monotonous words that flow together. Angel should listen. It's important to know what he's in for. But he's got his back to Alastor, and he's drifting into the smoothness of the blankets. Alastor finishes with an: "Are you still awake, Angel?" 

"Mhmn." He's almost asleep, a little annoyed to be pulled from getting so close to sweet nothingness. 

"Does Valentino's desire to watch others... _fornicate_... extend to his allies?"

"Wh'd'you 'ave in min' Al?"

"If you could seduce Vox, and we could record it without his knowing, would that do the trick?"

And suddenly Angel couldn't be more awake. " _No_ ," he says, forceful. 

"Valentino wouldn't be swayed?"

 _Valentino would love that._ But Angel doesn't tell Alastor that, couldn't tell him for all the alcohol in the underworld. He stays in bed, eyes wide open and fixated on the opposite wall, and wires crawl over his skin and he feels his guts shifting; spilling all over the sheets in front of him and all he can do is close his eyes and will it all to stop- _STOP_.

"Angel?" Alastor insists, placing a hand on Angel's shoulder. Angel remains as limp as possible; unflinching, tamed breathing. "...Ah," Alastor says, quiet, disappointed. "Dream well, dear." His weight leaves the bed, and Angel hears each little clack of his feet, like a deer's hooves, as he leaves the room. It isn't until long after he's alone that Angel forces himself to move, pulling the blanket tight around him, two hands pressing hard against his stomach to be sure everything's there. 

The drunken fear fades into terrifying nightmares. 

* * *

Alastor doesn't sleep much that night, either.

The wasp has woken - the holes through him healed over with time. He's contained within the body bag, buzzing and rustling. In his shop, there's a stand for his microphone - instruments to suit any need, from saxophones to guillotines. _"Can you hear that buzz of delight, dear listeners? Eleven-thirty p.m. Seems we're well out of the watershed now, which can only mean fun for a sinner of this sort. Why I bet had I left you where you were you'd be putting that stinger of yours to use,_ vespa _, and that's what you came to the hotel to prevent, was it not?"_

Not all of them are enforced with Heavenly steel. His hunting knife is usually just used for finishers, but some pesky demons are built with clever defence mechanisms. It should hopefully incapacitate his for long enough. _"You see,"_ Alastor begins, surveying his other delights. He puts needles on his workbench, a small vat of acid. _"I'm not one to false advertise, folks. If you come to the hotel, I'll make sure your ills are cured."_ Finally, he begins to unwrap the once-body. The wasp gasps for air - the first breath he's had in many hours. Alastor tears the tape from his mouth, and the pitiful pest whimpers in pain. _"And what did you claim when you signed in, vespa?"_

_"No, no, please-!"_

_"Uh uh! Hush. What did you check into the hotel for?"_

_"I..."_ There's a sob from the wasp - Alastor rolls his eyes. He gives the demon a moment to talk, inspecting the gleam of his hunting knife against the bright lighting of the room. _"Sex addiction,"_ the bug admits, crying harder. _"I'm sorry, I-"_

 _"Sex addiction!"_ Alastor proudly repeats, clearer, in case the midnight audience missed it. _"Quite a weak word for your affliction. Well, aren't you lucky you're here. I just happen to know something that'll help you keep control of your appendages. It seems to me like you simply have more than you know what to do with!"_

 _"Oh, God, please,_ no! _"_

Alastor laughs, and his shadow behind him begins to key a joyful tune into a grand piano. _"We'll fix you right up,"_ Alastor assures him calmly, supporting the offending object as best he can without grimacing or getting pricked. _"No more endangering others with that awful self control of yours."_ There's a dozen screams for Alastor to stop with the quickening of a riff and when he swings the knife down hard there's a terrible, horrible cry. 

After that, a buzz that might be static, or might be the moans of a tormented wasp.

 _"Dearie me,"_ Alastor says, his voice alight with amusement, barely holding back a chuckle. _"It's a bit chunkier than I expected, listeners, though I do admit this is my first time. Second time's the charm?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that I was going to change a scene from the next chapter because it was too gross/graphic but then I came up with that wasp scene instead i guess I'm so sorry???? Either way a lot of this chapter was written last minute which isn't usually my style. I'm going to take a break soon (between Act 1/Act 2, and also because I'm going on holiday) so chapters should go back to the usual style of "written weeks in advance and touched up over time until being properly editted for posting".


	9. Hashing it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Alastor do as it says in the title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of things get touched on in this chapter but not particularly explored in a big way: mental regression, sexual trauma, scars, ritual self-harm, possible eating disorders. I also make an attempt, as an Australian, to write an American accent at midnight nonetheless and generally write/draft half this chapter at late night. But the chapter is only 10 minutes late, and I hope you enjoy it.

> A ten-year old boy sits down on a zebra-striped rug, watching Popeye cartoons on a TV model that won’t exist for another twenty-five years. It’s late at night; everyone else asleep, and the world consists only of him and the light pollution flowing through the windows and the cartoon. He laughs at the antics, at Olive Oyl winding up in danger again, but he knows Popeye will save her, and he suspects it will end with a kiss.
> 
> He wishes he were Olive Oyl, which is a strange thing for boys his age to wish, he’s told. But he knows what it is to be swept away, to be trapped and restrained. He wants someone to save him. He’s so entranced, imagining himself as the damsel in distress, that he’s stuck in place as the television's wires reach out. They plunge into the carpet, dragging the set closer, and closer.
> 
> Popeye still hasn’t saved Olive Oyl. It looks like Bluto might have her for real this time. His heart races with fear but he cannot see what's right in front of him.
> 
> The television cables coil around his chest and it feels _good_ and it feels _wrong_. There’s electricity around his privates and he feels afraid and something else he can’t understand. The wires around him hold him tight, squeezing tighter than his body demands, until his ribs bow and break.
> 
> He’s black and blue all over and his ribs pierce through skin and he's bleeding – he’s not supposed to bleed.
> 
> A hand touches his cheek, which is covered in fur now, and he meets staticy, cartoonish eyes. They seemed friendly at the time. "So you're Val's favourite," the wires wrap around two of his hands, pulling him towards bed. "You ready to become a _star_?"
> 
> He would have been thirty-five this year. He watches cartoons on a television that won't exist for sixty years, and he's glad it's on the television because his dad tore up his dailies and putting all the pieces back together took hours. Television is so much more permanent than the physical. A pink fog seeps from the window when he opens it; stares longingly at a blank red sky.
> 
> He’s never actually seen the stars before. He wonders if they all feel this way.

Angel wakes with a start, heart pounding against his ribs which - thankfully - healed long ago. There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He doesn’t think, pushing it away. Doesn’t know where he is – all he knows is unfamiliar blankets and red glowing eyes staring at him through the darkness and hideous, yellow teeth illuminated by the glow, and with his secondary eyes he can smell something awful and cloying and familiar.

It comes back to him slowly, and Angel eases, nursing the soreness in his skull with one hand as he takes in his mostly harmless observer. He wonders how well Alastor can see him. What he sees. Angel’s still dressed in the clothes he wore last night when he got here, but his fluff is spilling out, tangled, and his hair is similarly mussed. The last time he slept in his clothes must have been the last time he went on a bender with Cherri. He felt so sick that morning. No nightmares though: just sweet, dreamless sleep.

But he’s not with Cherri having fun anymore. He’s with Alastor: stuck in some sick political-therapy scheme that he’s sure isn’t going to end well for him. And he can't even numb himself on drugs like he usually would when he's caught in these cruel webs.

“You were screaming,” Alastor says bluntly, but quietly. “Hard to sleep when your neighbour's screamin' bloody murder.”

Angel wishes he could hug someone. Regrets not going back to the hotel. To Fat Nuggets.

“Was it about that wasp?”

It takes him a while but he recognises what the room's familiar aroma is.

Alastor smells like blood.

“No.”

Angel smells like arousal.

What a pair they make.

“It was a nightmare,” Angel says, when Alastor still hasn’t moved.

“I couldn’t tell,” the Radio Demon teases. As Angel crosses his arms, burying his face in shame, Alastor changes pace. He seems tired; exhausted really. Probably hasn't slept much either, if at all. His skin when he touches Angel's arm is warm and wet, like he's just gotten out of the shower. “You’ve had a stressful day, mon ami, but tha' saleau can’t hurt you no-more.”

As if he ever had hurt Angel. “It was just a fright, that’s all. And I mean it – it wasn’t 'bout that bastard,” he adds that last bit without hiding his annoyance. “Ain’t lyin’. It was… About a lot of things..." He can still feel the cutting sensation - the slow knitting of his skin back together. The way his intestines forgot how to sit in his abdomen. It hurt everytime he ate. Everytime he shat. 

_"Come on, muffin, aren't you bored of those cartoons? It's time for bed."_

Alastor lights some candles by Angel's bed. In the flickers of light he can see Alastor's grey face. His lips curve upwards in a way that's nearly nice, a small few drops of blood mixed in with the water droplets on his hin, his hair's dry, held back in a pony tail, a million pins holding the loose threads in place. 

He's wearing skivvies; black and red stripes - the kind worn by a man who insists on remaining stuck in the thirties, though the material seems new. It's still the most revealing thing he's ever seen Alastor in, and so loose. Alastor's bones are practically jutting out through his skin: he looks fragile, small, especially with his expression so polite and easygoing, especially with the mess that's been made of his flesh. Angel watches the dancing of shadows along the ridges of his scarred skin; his neck and collar are the worst off, but his arms seem pretty messed up too - one is clearly intentional, resembling one of the symbols Alastor seems to decorate everything with. His legs seem mostly fine - a marking that's clearly the bite of a large dog. No doubt enough of a shock to knock him to the floor, freeing up access to his neck.

Those legs he crosses over one another, placing both hands on a knee, humming a delicate tune. Angel watches him bounce a hoof impatiently, and faces the fact that Alastor isn't about to leave anytime soon. That butt in modestly fitted undergarments is staying firmly planted, probably until Angel makes himself vulnerable. "You gonna force me to talk about it?"

"If I leave you back to your devices you'll either shout again or not sleep at all," Alastor says demurely. He adds, "Doe, we should discuss somet'ing other than the contents of your nightmares. Dwelling on the pain only makes dem worse." Spoken like someone who has had his fair share of nightmares, and apparently is far too tired to keep up illusions of grandeur. 

He would have preferred a hug, a cig, and maybe some light touching as he drifts off back to sleep. But the candles do give the new room some warmth, and Alastor's constant noise is homely - Angel isn't sure exactly what he's playing right now because there are no lyrics to identify it by, but it's a soft, soothing sort of jazz. It makes his heart clench, makes it disgustingly easy to forget that Alastor isn't doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He's pretending to care so he can get Angel on his side. 

It's working. 

"When you fuck Vox up... what then? Everything he has will be yours. Maybe I'm sellin' ya short here, but it doesn't look like you're particularly handling this business well. Why take Vox's as well? It's just more work." 

Alastor seems glad to have been asked - his grin grows in a way that seems genuine, and he uncrosses his legs to angle himself to face Angel. One of his hands leans against Angel's thigh. "I've been plannin' dis move for a long time, _mon ami_ ," Alastor assures him. "Dere's much to understand abou' the art of runnin' such a business, but it's too important for me to go bahg."

"Why do you care so much, though?"

"De more I wait da more powerful Vox's influence becomes," Alastor explains. "He's got eyes everywhere, dear - privacy is more and more of a luxury. One I'm findin' harder and harder to maintain the longer he sits on dat ivory tower of his." His accent is wavering - Angel's not too sure where it begins or ends. Alastor's excitement is mashing the tones together - sounds of music and audience input blend together. Then, he finishes in his perfect, stuck-up host's impression: "Though, I doubt it worries you as much as it does myself."

Assumptions again - Angel grimaces. "You know, slut or not, I have my limits you ass. I don't like having my room meddled with and my phone stolen, for one." Alastor seems sheepish for a moment. Angel takes the pause as a chance to continue. "For all you apparently value privacy, you don't seem to really care about others, do you? I mean, wasn't that your plan with Vox, too? Take advantage of his sense of privacy?" 

"Fair enough," Alastor sighs, his voice soft with self awareness. "You have a point dere." He lifts his hand off Angel's leg, turns his palm up to reveal a pink flip phone. Exactly as it was when Angel lost it. "It's been causing a ruckus all day."

One hand sneaks out from under the blanket to grab his phone. He doesn't open it - much too bright for the night. But he does feel safer with it's weight buried between the fluff of his chest. Same piglet sticker on the front. Same familiar pink casing. "My room?"

"I'm contractbound to protect you. The veve's-"

"The _radio_. You listen to people through it?" Alastor seems affronted. "Thought so. Look, I don't care too much. I'm an exhibitionist myelf. Just assure me you only do it during talk segments, 'kay? Like, regular bullshit marketing scams." 

The radio demon relaxes slightly. "I don' know what dat means. But you have my word," he says, four claws splayed along his chest. "Upon de grave of my momma." 

"Good," Angel mutters. "And know that if you do tune in during the wrong times you'll suffer for it." 

"I don't doubt." 

Candlelight flickers between them. "When you asked last night- or, _tonight_. About Vox and Valentino..." Angel sighs, "There _may_ be something we can do." He watches Alastor's eyes brighten, sees his sharklike grin split his cheeks. Alastor leans closer, and if Angel weren't so messed up he would probably have felt scared by the sounds of slaughter that simmer beneath the static. 

"What'd you have in mind, my dear?"

"My first time doin' porn," Angel begins, wringing his hands, plucking pale pink fur from the blankets. "It was with Vox, wasn't really... made public. I've checked - on the internet, asked creeps for it. I can't find it. And Val didn't have it either. Said it was Vox's to keep. I bet he still has it... I bet Val'd love to have it, too." 

Alastor's grin stretches, wide and feral. " _Cho_ , Angel 'ad I known you were dis filled with wisdom at three a.m. I'd 'ave visited your bedchambers sooner." From anyone else Angel would have considered it a flirt or a proposition. He's starting to get the idea that this is just Alastor's own sadistic way of messing with him. 

Angel gulps. "So... we in this together?"

"Fuh shore, _mon ami_. Your revenge'll be a real nice marinade for da feast we've ahead of us." 

And damn his fucked up body because while his skin crawls at the words, his underwear seem to become even more damp.

Alastor pets the backwards crook between his knees, then leans forward with a "We'd best be gettin' you to bed," but Angel catches him by the arm - skin much softer and bones much easier to feel than he was prepared for. Alastor hisses static at the touch, but does stop where he is - lips pursed just a moment from the lick of the candle's flame.

"Can we leave them on for a bit?"

Al turns to him with a puzzled look. "You'll burn de house down, dear." 

"Stay with me, then," Angel pleads. "Just... until I go to sleep. Blow them out before you go." 

Red eyes stare blankly at Angel, and it's only now that Angel's noticing the wrinkles under them - so subtle, but just barely caught in the shadows created between his own red glow and the yellow flicks of fire. Alastor withdraws from the candle with a reluctance that could almost make Angel feel guilty, resigning himself to Angel's request, closing his eyes and easing himself back into the portion of the bed he'd claimed already. "How bou' I play some music for you?" 

Angel says he would like that very much. 

* * *

Angel wakes up again hours later. Alone, tangled in purple bedsheets, his clothes in all sorts of disarray and with a blasting headache to seal the deal. When he checks the bedside he finds a glass of water, along with a half-diminished candle. The wax is long dried; he hadn't realised it was lavender scented. In the distance, midday hellfire paints the sky a vibrant orange rather than the deep scarlet of night time, and he groans at the overbearing pull of daytime. It's far too hot to hide under the blanket without stripping - he considers it, but eventually decides to give in to the natural cycle of life, and join the land of the unliving. 

The veve as Alastor called it lights up on Angel's way out. And there's a sudden loudness to what before had only been a light trickle of jazz. 

It's a strange relief, as he makes his way down the hall, to find that he remembers most of what happened the night before. Embarrassing, sure. But nowhere near the weirdest time he's been drunk. Alastor started to act weird, too, towards the end there. Did he have something to drink?

Is that what his real voice sounds like, or is that also a show?

Or a dream...

Despite being hungover and not exactly an expert at navigating impossible hallways, Angel tends to the direction of food - the smell of bacon, the soft sizzling of a frypan, the much louder singing of a joyful Radio Demon. _"All that meat and no patates,"_ he sings along to a boastful saxophone, _"All that food to the alligators."_ The voice of last night is gone - replaced with his usual radio tin. Easy to imagine something absurd like that when you're drunk and stressed, he thinks, but when he finds the open door that leads to the kitchen, Alastor's attention is on him immediately. 

"Good morning, Angel," he says far too cheerily - Angel flinches. Alastor dips into a deep chuckle, his hands working magic in a frypan filled with potatoes. Another, taking up the opposite hotplate, hosts eggs and bacon aplenty. "I've made a breakfast fit for a hangover of your sort, my dear fellow, and there's plenty of coffee at the ready." He's dressed. Angel looks at his clothes closely - trying to see just how thin and bony he is underneath, but though the fabric fits well, it must be thick. He's cooked enough to feed a small army, too. There's recently soiled dishes in the sink, greasy, and mess on his apron - _his_ apron! _Which has "Meat is Murder" embroidered in one corner_ \- all pointing to this not being Alastor's first meal this morning. 

"You have a party while I was asleep?" Angel asks, with reference to the pile of used dishes stacked by the sink. He pours himself a coffee, still talking. "Because if what I saw last night was real I have no idea where the hell all that food could have gone." 

Alastor rolls his eyes - and it's nice to see him genuinely amused. Better yet when he snaps back: "At least I'm aware of what it is I put in my body, it seems you'll take anything you find on the street." 

With a cackle: "Woof, you got me there. Guess that means you have a pigpen in this barn somewhere?"

He makes the mistake of taking a sip. "It's good to be prepared, should one crave dick for breakfast." And nearly chokes. 

"Jesus fucking christ, Al, don't fuck with me like that." 

With a dark chuckle, Alastor mixes the bacon in with the potatoes. "I don't know what you're saying dear," he teases, the corner of his lips quirking. Two plates are topped with hash, and Alastor delicately balances an egg on each of them before putting them at the table. He pulls a chair out for Angel, waiting until he sits comfortably. It's only a small table. Three chairs, a pillow on each one, though the fluff in the pillow is in desperate need of being replaced. Not terribly comfortable. He wonders when the last time Alastor actually had a guest was. "Is your mind really so deep in the gutter you can't even discuss lawmen with me." 

"You know exactly what you said," Angel says - watching the innocent grin on Alastor's face become sly. 

The food is good - really good. Nothing like Angel's had before, which he thinks is really quite sad when someone's been around over a hundred years. He hadn't realised he'd missed this. Valentino was really controlling about anything he ate. Keeping the pipes clean and all. Whether it be so someone can give him a clean fuck or what colours his intestines are when they pull him apart. The initial feelings of excitement at such a full, tasty meal turn sour less than halfway through, but Alastor's stomach is more than big enough for the two of them. 

* * *

Alastor keeps him a while longer. Making the barest of arrangements for how they're going to infiltrate Vox's studio and find the original Angel Dust porno. Behind one of the far doors in the hallway is a workshop of sorts - tools Angel's only seen on television before and which he definitely doesn't know how to describe. The room is filled with odds and ends - machinery that goes as far back as the 1920's, but some that's recent enough Angel himself isn't familiar with it. A lot of it's your typical electronics, but some of it looks like it's meant for food. Most of it has been dissected and gutted - a bin filled with plastic coverings and shelves covered in jars, labelled and filled with the innards of electronics. In Hell where much of the technology breathes, it's hard not to be a little uncomfortable, but if any of them were truly alive he doubts they'd have stayed put so long. 

Angel stares at an old-fashioned television. A model from the fifties. It's not the only thing that reminds him of Vox in this room. A few old-fashioned cameras; nothing attached to the wall. It's all locked back here, pacified as if it might come to life at any moment to eat Alastor. Angel supposes that may be exactly what the Radio Demon fears. It's an eat-or-be-eaten world out there for a glutton. At the very least, Alastor's been honest about his fear of cameras. They're not allowed to mention Vox, Angel isn't allowed to call Alastor by his name. Hardly allowed to discuss why they're in the room. 

Alastor pulls a film reel from a shelf filled with nothing but old films, ranging through reels to tapes to discs. He holds up the roll like a trophy. "'57, you said, _mon ami_?"

Angel nods. "Then this should be the perfect replacement. He'd never even realise it's gone!" There's cheers and laughter that follow the declaration, but when his live audience says nothing, " _Ange_?"

"I'm lis'nin." 

"So why exactly isn't this video like the others? Why wasn't it broadcast all through Hell?"

Angel shrugs, prodding the buttons of the old telly. It doesn't react; if it was even plugged in, he doubts it would still be alive and working. Besides, there's some signs Alastor may have dissected it - judging from the loose-ends sticking out of the venting. "Maybe 'cause it was just an audition. Maybe 'cause he didn't wanna be seen fuckin' a dude. Maybe 'cause it was too brutal for the audience at the time. Hell, maybe he just likes having it to himself. But Va- _boss_ liked it a lot back then, so he'd probably do anything if we could get it for 'im." 

"I doubt it was too brutal given what he advertises," Angel shrinks at the dismissive tone. "I'm sure his reasons are more personal. Losing this video will ruffle his jimmies, I'm certain of it." With a beaming smile, Alastor makes his way out of the room. After a few more moments soaking in the techno gore, Angel follows. 

He's feeling the worst buildup of arousal when he leaves.

* * *

Alastor sends him back to the hotel after that. 

Angel makes himself right at home at the concierge. He can't afford anymore drinks, but he can afford to distract himself, and Husk has little else to do but deal with it while the hotel is so empty. "I got a raging boner right now," he complains. Husk lets out a grunt: his most famous cocktail of annoyance and disgust. 

"Why the fuck are you telling me about it? Go take care of it if it's bothering you."

Angel looks up at Husk with eyes that are supposed to be endearing. "Could you say that last bit again but- like- _sexier?_ "

Husk makes a show of turning his nose up at Angel, who lets out a breathy chuckle in response. When he refuses to move after a few minutes more, Husk, reluctantly, poors him a flute of champagne. "Our little secret," he tells Angel, like a million men before him. "Now tell me what's up." 

"I think you know what's _up_ ," Angel picks up the glass, earning a facepalm from Husk. With a chuckle, he changes the subject - "Okay, for real... Am.. I in any danger?"

"What do you mean?" Husk knocks back a drink of his own. 

"Alastor... You know him, right? Does he wanna hurt me or eat me or fuck me or somethin'?" 

Husk rolls his eyes. "You're close to him," Angel persists. "You should know, right?"

"Nobody knows what the fuck Al is thinking but Al, and even then I have my doubts..." Husk answers. Concern settles in, but Husk isn't dry on wisdom. He continues: " _But_ if it makes you feel any better, if he's keeping you around this much, you're useful to him, and in his own twisted way, he likes ya. So you're probably safe... _probably_."

"He ever hurt you or Niffty? Was there every anyone else?"

"I haven't seen anybody else. And he's a pain in my ass, but he hasn't hurt me. Can't talk for Niffty." Husk takes a heavy swig, and Angel also takes the chance to sip from his champagne. "Soon as you can, though? Put as much space between you an' him as possible. You do _not_ wanna stick around his fuckery longer than you contractually have to."

"You and Niffty both lived with him, right?" Husk rewards the question with a blank stare. "Did you live there at the same time?" Still nothing. "You left years ago, right? Why?"

"Fuck off."

"Yeesh, forget I asked, then."

Angel finishes his champagne, and because there's no point even trying to weasel another from Husk, he goes to his bedroom. He sits on the carpet against the door, thinking about the warnings and the revenge that's yet to come. And he busies all four hands, orgasming more than once right in the spot where he shot a guy just a day ago. He makes no effort to control the volume - hopes everyone in the hotel heard it. Stares across his room at his radio as he comes down from it, and wonders exactly what kind of idiot he is to crave attention from the Radio Demon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this fic to this point!! If you don't have much to say, could you please leave 'kudos' or even just 'k' in the comments to let me know you're still following? The amount of notifs I get about this fic had a huge drop around Ch5 which I suppose is normal, but I've never lasted this long for a fic and the feedback, even if it's small, really does help keep me motivated. I'm so glad I've gotten as much as I did, especially in the early stages of this fic. I didn't expect to get this far. I read and adore all your comments, and even stalk the public bookmarks. Thanks to those keeping up in the bookmarks and making little comments, too <3 
> 
> It may be up to - but not more than - a month before I start posting again (because real life must go on), but you may have noticed I made this a series. If you subscribe to that I'm going to post a Niffty & Al brotp prequel, with a side of Al's and Vox's rivalry beginning. Since we're transitioning between Act 1 and Act 2 I figured it would be a good time to take a break so I'm not having to upload things that have barely been polished like I did these last couple chaps. I promise Act 2 won't be as emotionally draining as this one is to get through either. However, keep in mind motivation. If there's a signifcant amount of comments, even if all they say is 'k', I may be motivated to write faster & upload earlier.


	10. Tempting as it May Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where Angel is especially horny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams for five hours* I'm not fully sure how to tag this right. But know that this is _very horny (read: porn?)_ , and pretty stalkerish/exploitative. Huge thanks to [RainStorm2122](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainStorm2122/pseuds/RainStorm2122) for giving this a read before I posted, because I couldn't properly proofread certain parts myself.

Things get uncomfortably repetitive and dull in the weeks following. 

Angel finds white rum on his doorstep every morning yet again. Downs it in one gulp and rides out the morning with a fuzz on his brain. There’s enough green to keep him from laying in bed all day, even if some days he lays in bed for hours before calling room service for his dose.

He gets visits a lot, now. Charlie does wellness checks every day. Since Angel's sobriety (gross) made him actually kinda want to give recovery a shot (even grosser) Cherri's decided to come for visits to support him like the pal she is. She makes sure to come often, and to always bring contraband so that someone - usually, Husk - is forced to strip-search her. Angel isn't sure if she's more excited about pissing him off, or if she just gets a sexual thrill out of it. Cherri isn't sure which one it is, either, but he thinks it’s good for her. Wonders whether there’s a way he could get Husk to do it to him. On bad days, she reminds him of her offer to bust him out in a fiery explosion.

Molly keeps up fortnightly visits. They've got eighty years to catch up on, and they seem to be doing it in reverse. Most recent to least recent news. She brings board games often – increasingly modern and ridiculous since Angel started getting crabby about losing checkers. Turns out Hell has its very own edition of Monopoly: you can buy the Radio Tower, the Hotel, the Val’s Studios. Molly beat him at that one, too, but it was less the bitter sting of losing checkers and more a drawn-out session of emotional torture the likes of which their father would have been proud of. Which leads to the uncomfortable reveal that she has actually tortured people, which is one of many things that doesn’t sit right with Angel’s understanding of who his sister was in life.

On days like that, where Angel’s world shifts uncomfortably out of wack, he wishes Val would take him back. He misses the simplicity of drugs and sex and not having to wonder about things like whether he’s happy with the way things worked out or where he is or if what he’s doing is really going to make things easier (the answer back then was always _yes;_ just go with the flow and the high would never end).

Husk helps him through those days, when Angel calls Val and goes to voicemail, he cashes in a Happy Point and Husk gives him a strawberry mojito for his troubles. Sometimes, he gets an extra drink out of pity. Husk may not be bursting with friendly energy, but he’s a good drinking buddy. Always listening, even if it’s just to tell Angel “I don’t want to know what you and your pimp do behind closed doors.”

_No new messages._

The radio plays all day. There’s also a single, old television on the back of the bar – usually muted, playing sports. Angel doesn’t follow sports, but he’s fucked men who do, and he knows that the difference between human sports and demon sports is brutality sevenfold. Whether he’s drinking or not he tries to spend a lot of time in the concierge. Sometimes talks to the other residents of the hotel. They all seem friendly enough for bastards stuck in Hell. He wonders what kind of dark secrets they’d reveal post-coitus. But when he spreads his legs, runs a hand down their back, whispers sweet proposals, he's left with the lonely sound of the radio and no way to have fun. 

So he spends most of his time talking to Husk, or Charlie, or _Vaggie_ \- she’s a bit softer with him lately. She probably feels responsible for the whole wasp thing. They talk sometimes, but it’s tainted with something awkward and meaningless. She’s too afraid to get close to him, he realises. The feeling’s mutual. 

There's not always someone willing to talk to him. Even when everyone apparently is prioritizing his recovery, they have their own lives or some shit. So, when updating Fat Nugget’s social media accounts gets to be boring, and he gets tired of every single phone app game having 66 ads or a paywall that costs half a soul, he takes to collecting books from around the hotel.

Charlie keeps collections of human books and has an entire room devoted to storing her collection. It surprises him more than it really should: most of them are poetry or classics - he wonders whether the last time she went bookshopping was 1800. He doesn't actually ask. He also collects another couple dozen from Niffty; she apparently mostly reads books online, but she _refuses_ to tell Angel how to find them on his phone, so he just steals what physical copies she has instead. He has trouble telling which ones are from earth and which ones are from Heaven, especially when most of them are demon romances. He’s pretty sure Cherri tried to get him to watch a movie like the Twilight book once, but he was too high at the time to remember it.

He forgets to ask her about it.

The good news is that sex appeal can be found in _any_ book if you’re looking for it, and Angel certainly is in those quiet nights. Two hands on the book, one hand on himself, the other fiddling with the condom packet he’s been using as a bookmark, imagining himself as the needy female protagonists while the love interest takes him rough. 

He pauses only to check his phone. Scroll through texts with no return messages.

**[Angie ♡]: U wanna have phone sex tonight babe?**

_No new messages._

* * *

For all the talks of partnering up, Angel hasn’t actually talked to Alastor in a while. Alastor can occasionally be sighted following Niffty into the kitchen, ranting about his plans for the week’s meal plans, or smiling that devil smile as Vaggie storms out of the office, followed by a conflicted Charlie. He’s still acting normal, but he seems to be avoiding Angel.

Which is an insult Angel just isn’t down for. It’s a painful reminder that Alastor is just using him, and if that’s how it’s gonna be, then that’s how it’s gonna be. Alastor can use Angel, sure. But he’s gonna be used right back. 

That may all be just a justification for what he’s about to do – rather than admit the truth that he’s sexually frustrated ( _how can he be sexually frustrated?_ He’s the most famous porn star in Hell and absolutely _nobody_ wants to fuck him right now?)

Because the truth is Valentino’s discarded him, and Husk’s only interest is booze, and Gary’s too afraid to come to the hotel, and even that fucking wasp hasn’t been seen for weeks because he was probably maimed or something.

And when he’s alone at night thinking about how he can’t get laid, and trying to make the best of it, that goddamn radio is just staring at him across the room with its stupid dials and its dumb speakers.

Angel spends an embarrassing amount of the day tuned in. He switches between the channels depending on his mood. But he mostly sticks to what he knows to be Alastor's favourite - the all-day jazz channel. It's a constant, comforting sound. Reminds him of before his life got so complicated. Before his death got even more complicated. It's good to play in the background, whether he's reading or playing with Fat Nuggets or journaling or talking with a visitor or calling a friend. Or masturbating.

Hell, if Alastor knew how much Angel had masturbated with nothing but his imagination, one-to-six hands and that radio, he'd probably do something incredibly angry and hot, and then Angel would be even _more_ excited by him. At least, that's the scenario he plays in his head in the throes of another orgasm.

Tonight is going to be different. 

It's eight-fifty-nine on a Saturday evening according to the clock on his phone. Fat Nuggets is locked in the bathroom, a scented candle is burning on the nightstand by the radio: the only light in the room. Angel is wearing a red lace babydoll dress and nothing else - he waits, in the dark, quiet night, dragging a finger over the parts of his body where the fluff is shortest, and the skin underneath tingles with the touch. 

The record slowly teeters to a stop, giving the audience a chance to reflect on the music before moving on. Soft music - it's late enough that Alastor's treating his audience as if they were at home, but early enough that - realistically, most aren't. Angel's hands still for the silence, anticipation until that voice speaks. 

_"Good evening, Sinners,"_ he opens gently: that transatlantic boast, self-assured and pleasant is subdued just a touch. Some earthly instinct to lower one's voice seems to affect the demon this time of night, like that crushing need to quieten upon entering an office or a library. Angel's always held a steady rejection to those social rules, but Alastor's an old-fashioned man. It works in Angel's favour: the voice is just a touch sultry, which is why he had to do it now. He dips a hand between his legs. _"The Pentagram is gleaming in the sky and if you look ever so closely, you can almost make out the sound of Heaven's angels singing their psalms - how lucky they are, wouldn't you think? Though, I say they must live a rather dull life. Fancy an afterlife spent denying one's innermost desires._

_"Why you'd die all over again of boredom."_

God, if that ain't the truth, Angel doesn't know what is.

The last three months he's been denied his innermost desires. The very natural need to fill himself up with poisons and semen. It's Alastor's fault; seems only right that Alastor's the one left to fill in the hole (god, he wishes it were that simple). Still; he feels that same sort of rush he did with Valentino on the good nights. Not the sex itself, but that emotional line between exploitation and love that just presses all his buttons in the right way. Alastor has no idea Angel is masturbating to his voice. He'd hate it. 

Angel _loves_ it. 

He rubs soft circles around his clit, waiting for the part he's been anticipating for days now - _"Speaking of that... an interesting request this evening."_

_Pages rustle - a drumroll heralds the announcment._

_"An anonymous fan has sent me an unusual request in the mail."_ Angel can't believe he's this desperate. Well, actually, he _can_ believe it. _"To read a poem. As a fan of the finer arts myself, I couldn't possibly overlook such a request."_ He does it because he's fucked up. Because he doesn't know how to love someone who doesn't treat him like a toy or a tool. "The language is a bit archaic even for my tastes, so I hope my older viewers will forgive me if I misinterpret any of it." God, he hates being used. Gives him such a painful arousal. If only Alastor would use him. 

_Alastor clears his throat._

_"Cherry-lipped Adonis in his snowy shape..._  
_Might not compare wih his pure ivory white,"_

That voice does things to Angel. Makes him wonder how Alastor talks when his guard is _really_ down. Makes him wonder how he would talk to someone he truly loves. Thinks a guy like Alastor probably doesn't even know how to love another living being. But a fool would want to teach him, and Angel is a fool. At least, he must be to even consider it. 

Must be the hormones talking. 

_"On whose fair front a poet's pen may write,_  
_Whose roseate red excels the crimson agape."_

Or it's a power thing. Easy to be excited about power - Alastor thinks he owns Angel, but here Angel is pulling the strings. Getting Alastor to serenade him from all the way across Hell. Doing all this, absolutely certain that Alastor would slap him for this. Knowing that a slap would only make the situation so much better. Angel's the one giving this order.

This is _so_ much easier with a vibrator. It's a good thing he's had so much practice.

_"His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,_  
_Are rarely framed t'entrap more gazing eyes..."_

And it helps that Alastor doesn't know how to _shut up_. Even reading from a script, he ain't just reading it he's _absorbing_ the poem. _Enhancing_ it. Angel's not sure if it's voluntary or not, but there's a sad, romantic score as he reads aloud in that sexy late-night voice. Almost transforming the poem into a song. Something Angel might dance to.

His fingers are dancing between his legs - if that counts. Abdomen clenching in a way that tells him he's just got a little longer because damn he wants to finish when Alastor does. Fucker’s reading too fast.

Hey asshole, you know what they say about nice guys? (Alastor’s one of the cruelest guys he’s met.)

_"His cheeks the lilly and carnation dyes._  
_With lovely tincture which Apollo's dims._  
_His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,_  
_His mouth a hive, his tongue a honeycomb."_

Angel moans loudly, then nibbles his lip. A weak feeling spreads through his body, making him want nothing more than to curl up, relax. Like he's about to fall through the bed and crash through every possible delight on his way down if he keeps going. His body tells him he should stop. Determined; he keeps on. Rubbing faster. Biting into one of his hands to keep himself quiet. Toes gripping into the bedsheets and back raising off the bed just a fraction.

_"Wh... where muses, like bees, make their mansion._  
_His teeth pure pearl, in blushing coral set."_

Clenching his eyes shut, a growl forming through his teeth, because- _"Oh, how can such a body sin-procuring,"_ \- there it is. Angel lets out a sound like a yelp, biting down until his hand is numb and he can taste blood on his tongue, his fingers forced still as he squeezes his legs shut, and he grabs the sheets as the waves of pleasure rush over him. And there in the background is Alastor's voice, a little unsure, a little confused, as he finishes the poem. _"Be slow to love, and quick to hate, enduring."_

There's a fuzzy sound - interference. Angel lies back in the static silence, staring at the flickering shadows cast by his candle's fame.

"How can such a body sin-procuring..." Angel whispers, about to giggle with delight. 

_"Slow to love, but quick to hate, indeed,"_ Almost inaudible through the fuzz, but oh so cynical. That final note leaves Angel frozen in place long after the radio returns to it's usual programmes. 

* * *

"No fuckin' way!" Cherri punches his arm, harmless, but still pushing a laugh out of Angel. "He _so_ knows." 

Yet another day, yet another visit. Cherri makes sure to come in twice a week if she can afford to. While none of the contraband makes it inside, other things do, and Angel's slowly accumulating gifts. Stuff he'd left at Cherri's crib, like dresses and body glitter and posters, and some stuff she just thought he'd like, such as a fluffy pink set of headphones. They're not doing much. The radio is off as they talk - opting instead to share Cherri's walkman between them with a Britney CD and a crude speaker.

"If he knew he'd like, kill me for it or somethin'. There's no way he knows. He hasn't come here to gut me yet." 

"He _liked_ it! Bet he wants you to do it more. Next he's gonna start courting you like a real disney princess." 

"You know, babe of all the things to come outta your mouth I think that's the foulest shit I ever smelled."

"Says you! Oh my god, fucking _poetry_? That's the most disgusting, sappy thing I ever heard of!" 

Angel snickers. "Figured it was the closest I'd get to him talkin' dirty." 

Cherri laughs. "Pretty sure you're not the only one, either. People are going wild for it. Especially oldies like you," she laughs louder, nudging Angel's shoulder with her own even as he ives her a scandalised look. Cherri sits up, showing Angel her screen - _#radiodemon_ is filled with talks about the unexpected poem-reading. "I mean if he doesn't realise you were beatin' off to him, he's gotta at least know all the Victorian ladies are, right?" 

Angel rolls his eyes, but she's right. The tag is filled with comments that almost make _Angel_ seem like he's being too shy about it. Some of them are suggesting Alastor's discomfort towards the end of the show was his own arousal - Hell, Angel _hopes_ they're right. It'd be nice to finally know he can still give at least one guy a good boner. "I was kinda surprised he didn't see how obviously sexual the poem is. He's a prude, not an idiot. I mean, I know he knows what sex looks like." 

"He _totally_ got off to it. Spied on you through the radio. I heard he does that." 

"Yeah you mentioned before," Angel sighs. "Guess I was right from the start, dude's a freak just like the rest of them." 

Her laugh is grating, nearly childish. He sometimes forgets she died so young. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Ange. Can't believe your type is creepy overlords who like to spy on folk." It's so painfully true that all Angel can do is hide his head under his pillow in shame. "So you still gonna help him with the whole-" she pauses, looking at her phone and recalling Smile's dumb rules about technology, "Well, _the deal_?"

"Don't got much choice," Angel waves a hand in a reluctant gesture. He pulls the pillow off his face - "I'm stuck in it, now. But if I can get just one of them outta the picture it'd be good, right?"

"You need me to blow him up for ya?"

"Nah, he hasn't actually hurt me or nothin'. He's just confusin' as shit. Plus, he's my best shot at Vox." 

She shrugs a _That's fair_ sorta shrug. The conversation shifts to gossip about Valentino, then the porn studio in general. It's good to be back with his best friend - he wants a hug but ultimately feels too awkward to do anything about it, waving her off instead when she finally leaves. When she's gone, his mind is stuck on the king of mixed messages himself. 

If Alastor was listening, then he doubts he'll hear from him for a while. 

* * *

_Angel,_  
_Don't do that again._  
_\- Alastor_

_P.S. You may also enjoy Walt Whitman_

* * *

He finds the note written on the side of a cardboard box, only a few hours after his talk with Cherri. 

When Angel gets back from taking Fat Nuggets on a walk with Charlie, he notices it graciously returned to his bedroom where it belongs; where it hasn't been for weeks. A big cardboard box, filled with paraphernalia. At the time he was sure Vaggie was behind it; he should have guessed it was Alastor. He'll have to apologise to Vaggie (he won't). He doesn't even feel betrayed by it really. Just more proof Alastor really is the freaky bastard he thought he was. 

He's so excited to have them back, he almost forgets about the stash. 

There it sits, tangled in a harness - three-point-five grams. A nice, firmly packed little ball of happiness. 

Angel sits with it, rolling it over his hands for a full twenty minutes. It's so dense he could knock someone's lights out with it. White, powdery, perfect. One hit of this, and he'll forget who he even is for a moment. Probably do something crazy. Something he'd regret if he had the chance to think about it. 

Eventually, he makes his way to the bathroom. A very strong, very courageous part of his brain tells him he should flush it - but he's pretty sure that part got dropped in the trashcan of some old asylum, then probably got eaten by pigeons. Instead, he ends up hiding the coke in an empty box of bar soap instead, then placing it far back in the drawer. Where he can't see it if he's just grabbing a brush or something. 

Out of sight, out of mind.

It's comforting to have it there. He won't use it. It's just in case. 

Just in case. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments on the last chapter were SO good! I really didn't expect such an intense response. So many of you had so much to say, and I was so excited about it that I HAD to reply to every single one, even if it wasn't much I wanted to make sure you all know I love all this feedback and was so happy you put in the effort. Thank you all so much for letting me know you're still here. I'm sorry I took so long, but you really inspire me to keep pushing this story to it's end. I just hope that sticking with me pays off for your expectations, haha.
> 
> UPDATE 22/05/20:  
> As you may have noticed this story hasn't been updated in a very long time. We're all stuck in a bit of a crisis right now. I've been safe, and I haven't lost any loved ones. Work has been overwhelming, though, and some of the treatments I'd started getting over the course of writing this fic have been abruptly halted. I've been really low energy, and spent most of my time just playing Animal Crossing, since it's calming. This fic can be triggering for me to write at some points, so it's taken a backseat while I'm dealing with other stresses. Thank you all so much for all the love, and I promise this story isn't at it's dead end. I do have a few drafts already, and some plans, I'm just waiting to have a bit backed up so I can give you a good few updates when I do come back.


	11. Pass the Buck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When we last left off our intrepid hero, a seductive... Lady of the Night attempted to coax him. But he triumphs yet again in the face of malevolent forces! The pact still intact and the cunning plan complete, he is ready to face this wretched villain! What will happen to this gallant knight when all depends on a wild rapscallion not losing focus? Will he triumph despite the hand's that's been dealt? Or will this bacchanal creature pull him down with him into the depths of failure..._
> 
> \- fan summary written by [Poet Anderson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poet_Anderson).

Red buttons blink in the darkness, and Alastor stares at the ceiling. His hands cover his cheeks – warm – and he laughs to himself in the dead of the night as Richard Barnfield’s Sonnet 17 stares judgingly at him. The transmission ends without appropriate warning, and he knows he’ll pay for all of this in the morning.

It’s not often the Radio Demon is left at a loss for words, but that mangy arachnid _knows precisely how to push his buttons_. The more he rolls that realisation around in his head, the less comfortable he feels. Red buttons, like eyes, taunt him in the darkness.

When Alastor shuts everything off, he closes his eyes, seeing pitch black for a few moments. He tries to keep his thoughts straight, but he can’t smother the noises that leap to the front of his mind. Sounds he heard in Angel’s room, but sooner than that, even – Valentino’s turf, exhibitionism, sexual harassment. All rather standard for Hell, usually easy enough to _tune out_.

His mind tries reaching out to Angel again, but he solidly recalls his proclamation of privacy and the unusual state Angel seems to be in at the moment. He should tear that room apart, he thinks – remove all the temptations. The symbol on Angel’s door and the radio on his bedside. To do so would be to loosen his control on a demon who could potentially be the key to his uprising.

Alastor laughs harder.

Shadows stir in the darkness – glowing red and purple and green eyes – they whisper gossip, and Alastor’s laughs drip off sardonically until he’s left with nothing but an unfaltering smile. He doesn’t manage to accomplish anything that night, left only with his shame and a small, dark room.

* * *

If there are truly gentle souls in Hell, Alastor hasn’t found one yet. It’s Husk, in all his apathy, who seeks out the Radio Demon the next day when the morning announcements aren’t made. There’s no knock on the door or pitying looks – one moment Alastor’s caught in static humiliation with a stomach screaming in hunger, and the next there’s a lump of gore before him, and under his claws and in his mouth and never, ever filling his stomach quite right. It’s another demon – he knows that from the rush of power he feels as he eats. Where Husk got it, he doesn’t ask, doesn’t risk ruining how sweet a meal it is.

In a better state he would have heard the grumbling miles away, but it’s only as he’s licking his fingers that Husk’s lecture truly begins. “You done yet? Ain’t gonna eat me, too?”

Alastor’s smile twitches, and he leans back in his chair. His posture seems poised, but it fails in Husk’s eyes – too jaded to not see past fragile attempts to appear the bigger man. They’ve played this game plenty of times before; Alastor doesn’t intend to let Husk’s shouting break through his calm.

He pats some of the mess on his face with a napkin as Husk points a sharp claw at him: “That’s fuckin’ better. Now tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ lollygaggin around when you’ve got a goddamn show to run.”

“Last night-“

“Was _great_ for your ratings!” Husk cuts him off. “You haven’t even fuckin’ _moved_ have you? Yer actin’ like a brat and I have to risk my ass to come here and make sure you eat before you go wendigo and slaughter the whole city.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Alastor maintains a jovial tone. “You’ve wasted your time. If all you’ve come here to do is to tell me how to do my job. I’d rather you return to yours.”

Husk is growling, leaning against the wall; he’s got height on Alastor right now, but the Radio Demon doesn’t trust himself to stand without a blinding bout of vertigo. Husk drops a stack of letters on Alastor’s desk. “If you don’t capitalise on this, you’ll regret it. Times are changin’. So what if people think you’re some blushin’ virgin dizzy for a dame? What matters is they wanna hear _more_ – you ain’t gonna use that?”

“That’s not at _all_ -“

“Like fuck. I don’t care why you were peeping at the goddamn slut. You pay for my liquor, so when you’ve got an opportunity to make more money, you better not squander it, asshole.”

It would – _should_ – be easy to admit that Husker is right. There’s an opportunity here to get people tuning into the radio just for fun again and not simply because it’s convenient while they’re in their automobiles or at work. There’s an opportunity for sponsorships; for people to pay him to feature their poems.

An extra step out of his comfort zone could throw Vox off schedule. Could distract him from what Alastor is really planning.

But then there’s the disgusting prospect of people creating wild fantasies about what Alastor does in his spare time. There’s his own, closest pal daring to suggest that Alastor might have _feelings_ for the gutter-minded arachnid. There’s embarrassment, shame, over being tricked. Over being mistaken. Wrong.

He doesn’t appreciate that at all.

“You’ve known me long enough, Husker, to know that I don’t care for men, nor women, nor any other kind of demon.”

“That’s not my goddamn point-“ Husk begins, also knowing Alastor long enough to notice his attempts to redirect a conversation.

“Furthermore,” Alastor interrupts, sounding very sure of himself and not at all like he’s making it up as he goes. “This is _my_ show, not yours, old friend. I’ll make the decision myself once I catch up on some reading…” he glances at the mess of envelopes Husk has brought upon him.

There’s annoyance visible in the shifting of Husk’s tail, much like a cat prepared to bite the hand that pets it. It’s all Alastor can focus on in the awkward silence that follows. Twenty years between them and still far too much discomfort with each other’s emotions. Alastor would rather forget what he knows of Husk’s suffering. It’s too difficult to fear for losing him. Much easier to instead hold his soul hostage, taking away the choice for Husk to do anything permanent, and never truly address it.

Times like this, when it’s Husk to his rescue, he dares to wonder whether Husk doesn’t truly resent signing himself over.

“Whatever,” Husk relents eventually, throwing his hands in the air. “Give me some hooch and I’ll be out of your hair you goddamn prick. I won’t even ask you where that new room came from.”

They both know exactly what Husk means by that last jab. Alastor sighs, casting a bottle of liquor onto the desk in front of Husk. “Hurry off, old friend,” he says tiredly. “I’ve got a lot of reading to do.”

Husk nods, glaring down at the mountain of mail. His nose crinkles as he picks out one in a pinkish envelope; the written hand is old-fashioned and feminine. There’s a wax seal with a web-like stamp. “Maybe start with this one,” he suggests. “Looks like it’s from that moll you been talkin’ to.”

“Molly, not a moll,” Alastor corrects with amusement. He breaks the seal, reads it over quickly. He burns the letter as soon as the information’s been absorbed. “Seems like she’s been a dear and done everything I asked, though she’s got some concerns about… well.”

“Angel?” Husk guesses.

“I’ll have to see her today to discuss the details of our arrangement.”

Alastor pulls himself carefully to a stand, thoughts of hot coffee on the mind. He’s ready to get out of the house quickly and deal with the whole poetry debacle later. His good old friend has other ideas, grabbing his shoulder mid-escape. The unwanted touch sparks all manner of emotions, but Alastor merely bares a set of sharp teeth at his friend in warning.

With a roll of his eyes, Husk lets go, but he’s successfully halted Al. “You better not get yourself killed with this shit, ya hear me?” he says while he’s still got his attention.

Alastor blinks, confused, and his feral grin softens into something friendly. “Oh Husker,” he says, “I intend to keep your soul very safe for a long time. You needn’t worry.” 

* * *

Molly invites him in with open arms. The television is on when he enters, Valentino discussing last night’s matters on 666 News. Alastor scoffs at seeing the moving pictures used for petty gossip – looking at it that way allows him to uphold a sense of superiority for a brief moment.

Even through the speakers of an old television set, Valentino speaks with a voice that calls forth the feeling of being covered in insects and grime. "You could believe my surprise," he says, his voice thick with lust. "When the Radio Demon arrived at my porn studio, trying to take my prized star Angel Dust from me..." 

"Well isn't that _strange_?" coos Katie Killjoy, her head leaning at an angle only possible for her. "Why, I never thought the Radio Demon was into-"

"Men?" guesses Tom Trench. 

"Freaks," she clarifies - abruptly leaping into a high-pitched cackle. "No wonder he's so private. He must be up to some weird stuff, hiding out in that little murder shack of his." She makes a lewd gesture, and Alastor growls – a sound only apparent in the increase of interference through nearby speakers. “Apparently he turned an incel into a eunuch in his most recent show of torment.” Another round of laughter; nobody discusses the context of that particular late show.

“Now that was a show that took a step too far,” adds Tom. “I couldn’t listen to the whole thing, I don’t know about you, Katie.”

“If it were up to me you’d be the one in that creep’s basement, Tom.”

“Perhaps you could write to Alastor requesting it for his next show?” Val adds with a lecherous grin. “Seems he’s as desperate for money as my cheapest sluts.”

There's laughter in the background - not the fake studio laughter that Alastor likes to play. It's fresh. He's watched the picture shows long enough to know the difference between one pre-recorded and live. The conversation shifts back to Angel Dust. Valentino doesn't get into much detail about the nature of the deal. It's vague enough that it's sure to reflect an untruth about Alastor. He goes on to suggest that the porn released over a month ago was part of the hotel's marketing scheme. 

Rage spills out in shadows along the wall, Alastor’s hands clenching around his cane. Molly turns the television off – “I always listen to the radio before bed,” she admits. “I must commend a job well done, Radio Demon. Got a bit hard on ya towards the end,” her eyes flicker down. “I wonder what’s behind that?”

Alastor closes his eyes to breathe deeply – he removes his coat at the door, hanging it on the coat rack. His cane, he keeps to himself, simply snapping it back into the realm all his other possessions go when he has no immediate need for them. “Let’s say we skip the teasing and get right to the point. I’ve heard quite enough of it today, I assure you.”

They quickly cycle through pleasantries: Molly sets the table, prepares coffee for them both – something she seems rather adept at; Alastor isn’t quite used to being asked what sort of coffee he wants, so Molly decides after a few questions that a _caffé doppio_ would be adequately rich and bitter, while she gets herself something creamier. The gaps in their understanding of coffee creates wonderful small talk for a while, but when they’re settled and Alastor’s complimented Molly’s work, the conversation must continue back onto social and business matters.

Social first, it seems. “Didn’t I warn ya about repressing my brother?”

“I recall saying that I’ve heard enough about this,” Alastor attempts, but Molly ignores him.

“If you keep him all cooped up in that hotel with no release he’s gonna act out. He’s had plenty of time to detox, why not let him have some fun?”

“Angel’s version of fun happens to involve selling his services on the streets. I made a deal that his soul would be safe in my care – it’d be _highly_ irresponsible to let him go home with strangers.”

Her eyes roll, and she takes a long sip of her coffee before continuing. “If you talk to my brother, I’m sure he’ll have some ideas for how you can get around that. You just gotta _listen to him_ , dear. He knows more about this sort than you.”

Alastor hates to take advice, but not quite so much as he hates public humiliation. Molly and Angel are twins – for all their differences, she seems someone whose judgement he should trust on this matter. And he’s not willing yet to test her strength: a woman who manages to find comfort in Hell is a force to be reckoned with.

He drums his claws along the side of his coffee mug: a pink floral pattern, it matches the saucer topped with raspberry and choc-chip cookies in the middle of the table. Alastor’s not one for sweets, but his stomach protests with every moment he withholds himself from it. He needs to focus.

“I’ll have Angel’s… collection… returned. Hopefully that should provide him with some relief.” Molly seems obviously underwhelmed at this answer. Alastor makes a mental note to consider something more later, but pushes the conversation topic to matters he’s more comfortable with. “Now, shall we get onto business matters? There’s a studio to infiltrate.”

With another roll of her eyes, Molly gets up. She brings a pink folder in Alastor’s direction, slapping it on the table in front of him. “You’re lucky this is for Angel. Vox isn’t someone me and my people like to mess with.”

It’s thick – filled with sketches of floor-plans. Doorways are annotated with the security blocking them. Every entrance is labelled, and a few rooms in particular are highlighted – some red, some green. The information is thorough and annotated.

Alastor’s already observing the best entry points, and the weak links in the security systems that Molly’s people have laid out for him. All they will need is a distraction to get Vox and his best out of the building – make it easier for an armed thief to sneak in and out unobserved.

Their arrangement reaches an end when Alastor summons the final half of the payment. It sits in a leather suitcase on the counter, and Molly doesn’t waste a moment verifying the contents. She grabs a wad of cash, sliding a claw through it.

“You’re generous,” she says with a grin. “Didn’t realise you had this much to spend.”

“If all goes according to plan,” Alastor says with glee, “I’ll make up for my losses in no time.”

* * *

Alastor spends the rest of his morning sorting his mail, thoughtfully, into either the trash, or a pile of doable requests. The latter pile is small – less than a third of the original letters survived the purge. He reads them over once more, just to be sure he’s happy with them, before pulling up a chalkboard. It’s old, and many of the chalk pieces have lost their integrity. He manages to find one that doesn't turn to dust between his claws, and with a bit of elbow grease and water, he clears a spot in his schedule.

Poetry night – pre-recorded.

When he’s finished, he pushes himself back, admiring his work.

It’s a schedule filled with holes. Long stretches between shows where he has little idea what to do. Where boredom seeps in. Back in the old days, he could talk almost all day and people would love it. Sometimes he’d talk, sometimes he’d kill. Times change.

What Alastor wants to talk about is so often too old-fashioned for the demons of today. They stopped talking back. Maybe half his fanmail went to the trash, but it felt good to be worshiped by someone. To know that he didn’t, couldn’t, return the admiration and just to soak up how good it felt to have that power.

Alastor stares at the blank spaces on his schedule, where faint outlines can be seen. It’s been a long time since he’s _added_ something.

When he wonders what got him past the rise of television, what got him through the invention of tapes and walk-mans, his mind drifts back to Niffty, to Husk. What this place of terror and torment felt like with someone to share it with. How it feels to have someone so important to him that he’d offer his own lifeforce to keep them live and well.

How strange to have them both back in one place.

How strange to give Angel a bedroom.

He’s not lonely, he assures himself. Just bored of the chaos. 

Alastor pushes those disturbing thoughts away, standing from his chair with a new energy. He keeps the blackboard in the room, where he can see it until he adjusts to it, and rushes to his bedroom. He moves quickly, writing a little note for the spider, then retrieving a box buried deep in his closet.

It’s a little dustier than he left it, but it’s definitely the right box. It was never his to keep, and he supposes that returning it to where it belongs will resolve his pest problem. Alastor raises a finger to snap it away.

And just for a moment, he hesitates. Because while he knows he should want Angel to leave him alone, it’s a little exciting that the spider knows how to catch him off guard. Nobody can keep him on his toes like that spider.

He stares at the box.

_P.S. You may enjoy Walt Whitman._

He’s not entirely sure what message Angel will take from the gesture. A frustrating feeling, but far from boredom.

A moment later, the box is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round of applause to [Poet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poet_Anderson), who, in his eagerness for this chapter you're about to read, helped me get it a step faster to completion by adding a summary of the Story-So-Far.
> 
> It's so good to be posting this fic again. It's especially daunting to come back to such a headcanon-heavy story after we've got so much more canon information about the characters, particularly about Vox and Valentino (Velvet, too, was supposed to be a big part in a sequel). I've committed to this story, however, and I'll make whatever changes I need to in order to ensure I can still tell the story I envisioned. The longer I put it off, the more canon there'll be to make me feel self-conscious about my headcanons, haha. From now, for as long as I can manage it, I'll be posting Hazbin or Helluva fic fortnightly on Sat/Sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags may be prone to changes as this is a story in process. Warnings will be done in appropriate advance. 
> 
> If you want more, you can follow [this fic's Tumblr](https://redinksoul.tumblr.com/) or you can join [my Discord server](https://discord.gg/zBcTR8Q), where I hang out and talk with fans and other writers.


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